CM 

O 


EXCHANGE 


from  «  LIFE 


DISASTER ! 

'  I  ;O  ^  #  j/flw  is  joy  for  a  man 
•*•      When  love  rules  over  the  heart's  domains, 
But  it  isn't  always  the  safest  plan 

To  kiss  a  girl  when  she  holds  the  reins. 


from 

"LIFE" 


,  'PAGE  &  CO. 
IC}O2 


Copyright,     1902,    by 
LIFE    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 


Registered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

All  Rights  Reserved 
Printed  in  the  United  States 


The  Tro-M  Print,  New   York 


387598 


CONTENTS 


Disaster, Frontispiece 

To  Clorinda, I 

A  Ballade  of  Modern 

Love-Letters,  .      .      Jennie  Betts  Hartswick,  .  z 

March  17, 3 

A  Household  Hint, 4 

A  Hopeless  Case,     .      Oliver  Her  ford,    ...  5 

Marjorie's  Choice,   .      Dixie  ITolcott,     ...  8 

A  Woman's  Club,    .      T.  D.  Beas/ey,     .      .      .  10 

Dorothy, 10 

To  Nikola  Tesla, i  i 

Where  ? i  i 

Love's  Express,  .      .      Lucy  J.  Miller,   ...13 

But  ! Montrose  J.  Moses,   .      .14 

August,    .      .      .      .      M.  E.  W.,    ....  15 
His   Home-Brought 

Luggage, 1 6 

Cupid's  Picnic,  .      .      James  S.  Metcalfe,  .      .  17 
The  Sleeping-Car 

Show,        .      .      .      L.  A.   C.  IT.,      .      .      .  1 8 
Ballade   of  the   Old- 
Time  Valentine,   .      Jennie  Betts  Hartswick,  \  9 
Opportunity,       .      .      habelle  H.  Ferry,      .      .22 
ix 


Hello  !      .      .      .      . 

Love's  Calendar, 

Two  Hearts, 

To  Belinda,        .      . 

The  Fatal  Rhyme,    . 

Apres  Coup, 

The  Third  Proposi 
tion,     .... 

The     Sign     of     the 
Mistletoe, 

Astronomy, 

Cupid's  Defense,     . 

Hiawatha    Up-to- 
Date,  .... 

The  Raglan  Coat,    . 

Set  Free, 

The   American    Girl 
Loq,    .... 

The  Quarrel, 

My  Lady's  Slippers, 

A  New  Year's  Gift, 

A    Numerical    Love 
Tragedy,  . 

The  Blot  on  Polly's 
Bonnet,     . 

The     Truth     that 

Lines  to  a  Gray  Sis 
ter, 


Page 

-23 

R  ufus  Cyrene  Ma  c  Don  a  Id,  23 
Mont  rose  J.  Moses,  .  .  24 

25 

Oliver  Herford,  .  .  .  26 
Richard  Plantagenet,  .  3 1 

Madeline  Bridges,      .      .      32 

Edwin  L.  Sabin,  .  .  .  33 
Oliver  Herford,  ...  35 
Paul  West,  .  .  .  .  35 


W.  C.  Smith,  ...  36 
Willis  Leonard  Clanahan,  41 
Henry  Chapman,  .  .  .  42 


43 

Oliver  Herford,    ...  44 

R.  D.  W.,     .     .      .      .  46 

Madeline  Bridges,      .      .  46 

Tom  Mas  son,  .      .      .      .  47 

John  R.  R  a  thorn,       .      .  51 


Dick  Law. 


53 


Looking  tor   a   Girl, 

Love's  Art,  .      .      . 

The  Right  Side  and 
the  Wrong  Side  of 
the  Bed,  .  .  . 

Ballade  to  this  Year's 
Buds,  .... 

Love   and    Memory, 

The  Bridges  of  Shell, 

Happiness — A  Rec 
ipe,  .... 

Percy's  Breach  of 
Promise  Suit,  . 

Commiseration,  . 

Supreme  at  That,     . 

The  Old  Hat,    .      . 

Those  Easter  Belles, 

A  Valentine, 

The  Cost,    . 

The  Facts  in  the  Case 
of  Bluebeard,  . 

The    Same    Old 
Game, 

Cross  and  Crown,    . 

Ballade  of  the  Straw 
berry  Blonde, 

Vale,  Winter,    .      . 

Love's  Way, 

Sunday  P.M.,    . 


Page 

Joseph  Bolton  Lougbr^,    .      54 

55 


Paul  West,     .      .      .      .      57 

Henry  G.  Chapman,  .  .  58 
Emma  Carle  ton,  ...  59 
Lay  ton  Brewer,  .  .  .60 


60 


7.  H.  Holliday,   .      .      .  6 1 

Edward  Salisbury  Field,  .  64 

65 

J iimcs  Barrett  Kirk,      .  67 

Madeline  Bridges,      .      .  67 

68 

68 


Guy  Wet  more  Carry  I,      .      69 


Willis  B.  Hawkins,  .      .  75 

May  Waring,       .      .      .  76 

77 

78 

M.  E.  W.,    .     .     .     .  79 


A  Bourgeois  Ballade, 

Ballade      of     Casual 
Kisses, 

Sylvia,     .... 

Bertha,     .      .      .      . 

Remodeled  Woman, 

Cinderella,     . 

A  Demain,    . 

The  Summer  Girl,  . 

Inverse  Ratio,     . 

A  Gift  for  Prue, 

A  Prank  of  Fate, 

The  King's  Jester,   . 

A  Ballade  of  Wealth, 

An  Old  Bachelor,    . 

Enigma,  .... 

The  Twentieth  Cen 
tury  Spring,    . 

The    «  When  " 
Poems, 

Behind  the  Scenes,  . 

Lucy,       .... 

Kdition  de  Luxe, 

The  Girl  Across  the 
Way,  .... 

My  Chiffonier,  . 

Itemized, 

To  the  Sister  of  My 
Soul,    . 


Page 

J.  H.  Holliday,    .      .      .  8 1 

Tbeodosia  Garrison,    .      .  86 

Clinton  Scollard,  .      .      .  87 

89 

Elliott  Flower,      ...  89 

Guy  Wetmore  Carry!,      .  90 

Henry  Graf  ton  Chap?nan,  92 

C.  R.  Bacon,  ....  93 

93 

Tbeodosia  Garrison,    .      .  94 

Jennie  Betts  Hartswick,  .  95 

Joseph  H.  Gregory,   .      .  96 

Geraldine  Meyrick,    .      .  97 

Tudor  Jenks,  .      .      .      .  98 
Tbeodosia  Garrison,    .      .100 

Carolyn  Wells,      .      .      .  101 

Joe  Cone, 104 

Truman  Roberts  Andrews,  \  o  5 
106 

Lucy  J.  Miller,   .      .      .106 


108 

Edward  W.  Barnard,      .    108 
Edwin  L.  Sabin,  .      .      .109 

Ernest  Neal  Lyont      .      .no 


PaKe 

Above  and  Be 
low,  ill 

A  Ballade  in  Blue 

China,       .      .      Aibin  Peddecord  Ingram,      .    112 

The    Stuck-Up 

Doll,   .      .      .      Edwin  L.  Sabin,  .      .      .      .    i  1 3 

The  Other  Fel 
low,  .  .  .  William  Wallace  Wbitelock,  \  \  9 

To  Celestine, 117 

Made  in  Ger 
many,  .  .  Annulet  Andrews,  .  .  .118 

The   Spider    and 

the  Fly,     .      .      Aloysius  Coll, 119 

Cherchez    la 

Femme,    .      .      William  Wallace   Whit  clock,    \  20 

His  Wife,      .      .       Tbeodosia  Garrison,    .      .      .122 

In  Any  Garb,     .      Madeline  Bridges,      .      .      .    1 24 

«'  A  Lost  Hour 
is  Lost  Happi 
ness,".  .  .  Henry  Chapman,  .  .  .  .124 

The  Gourmet 
of  the  Table 
D'Hote,  .  .  Wilton  Lackaye,  .  .  .  .125 

Daphne's  Kisses,      Grace  MacG  wan  Cooke,      .    127 

Egypt,  1900,     .      Isabelle  H.  Ferry,      .      .      .128 

When  Bessie 
Climbed  Over 
the  Wall,  .  .  Winifred  Sackville-Stoner,  .  129 

To  a  Poet,    .      .      Carolyn  Wells,      .      .      .      .130 

To  Polly, 131 

xiii 


Page 

The  Unconquerable,  M.  W.  Pool,  .      .      .      .132 
A  Christmas  Hint,  .  Truman  Roberts  Andrews,    133 
Ballade  of  the  Golf 
ing  Bore,  .      .      .  Clinton  Scollard,  .      .      .134 
A    Ballade   of  Red- 
Heeled  Shoes,      .  Charlotte  Becker,       .      .135 

At  Matins, 136 

In  Snow  Time,  .      .  Frank  R.   Batchelder,      .    137 

Beside  the  Gas  Log,  Kate  Master  son,    .      .      .138 

Now  Lent  is  Done,  Tbeodosia  Garrison,    .      .139 

Pro  Bono  Publico,    .  Paul  West,      .      .      .      .140 

Three  B's,    .      .      .  Paul  West,      .      .      .      .140 

In  Cherubtown, .      .  Kate  Masterson,    .      .      .141 

The  Useless  Quest,  .  Madeline  Bridges,      .      .141 

To  Marion,  .      .      .  E.   C.  M.,      .      .      .      .142 

Transposition, 142 

The   Horse(less) 

Show  ....  Edwin  L.  Sabin,  .      .      .144 

A  Ballade  of  Easter,  Jennie  Betts  Hartswick,  .    145 
When  Dorothy  Goes 

Out, 146 


xiv 


-- 

\ 


TO    CLORINDA 

TjMREWELL  the  world  !     'Tis  Lent,  my  dear. 
•1      Let's  fly  the  crowd,  and  I'll  discover 
Some  pious  place,  where,  without  fear, 
I'll  court  you,  sweetheart,  under  cover. 

i 


A  BALLADE  OF  MODERN  LOVE-LETTEI 

I  CARE  no  longer  to  indite, 
In  tender  terms,  a  note  to  Mary, 
For  she's  grown  critical  and  quite — 
(Like  her  namesake  of" old)  contrary. 
She  tells  me  I'm  unliterary. 
My  manner,  she  declares,  is  bad, 

And  all  because  imaginary 
Love-letters  have  become  a  fad. 

She  dubs  my  fondest  phrases  trite, 

All  my  endearments  I  must  vary ; 
I'll  read  up  Meredith  to-night — 

To  quote,  she  says,  is  customary ; 

I  must  indulge  in  raptures  airy ; 
My  thoughts  must  be  obscurely  clad  ; 

A  novel  style  is  arbitrary. 
Love-letters  have  become  a  fad. 

The  missives  that  I  used  to  write 
In  love's  well-worn  vocabulary 

She  read  and  treasured  with  delight, 
And  rhetoric  and  dictionary 
Were  both  alike  unnecessary ; 

A  plain  "  I  love  you  "  made  her  glad. 
But  ah,  that  bliss  was  temporary. 

Love-letters  have  become  a  fad. 

L' ENVOI. 
Sweetheart,  the  Art  epistolary, 

I  fear,  is  like  to  drive  me  mad, 
Since  these  most  extraordinary 
Love-letters  have  become  a  fad. 

"Jennie  Betts  Hartszuick. 


MARCH    17 


w 


HISHT,    but     the 

town  is  in  a  stir  ! 
The     fifes     and     bugles 

play, 
The  flags  are  flying  down 

the  street 
To    keep    St.    Patrick's 

Day, 
And  where' s  the  Irish  lad 

that  hears 
"The   Wearin'    o'    the 

Green," 
Widout  he  turns  a  tender  thought 
To  some  dear-loved  colleen  ? 

Oh,  when  I'm  marching  to  the  band 

Across  the  noisy  square, 
Where  every  echo  wakes  and  sings 

The  blithe  Old  Country  air, 
Maybe  I  wouldn't  give  the  world 

Wid  all  its  pomp  and  pride, 
To  slip  along  the  quiet  lanes 

Once  more  by  Norah's  side. 

I  mind  me  how  she  came  and  stood 

Foreninst  the  stile  as  gay 
As  e'er  a  bird  upon  the  bough — 

(And  me  to  leave  the  day  !) 
While  trifling  wid  her  hair  the  wind 

Crept  in  from  off  the  sea 
That  lay  below  us,  glistening  like 

The  glance  she  stole  at  me. 

3 


For  'twas  a  roguish  eye  she  had, 

And  let  her  smile  at  you, 
Although  your  heart  was  like  to  break, 

It's  you'd  be  smiling  too  ! 
Yes,  laughing  looks  and  careless  words, 

Sure,  thim  was  all  that  passed 
Betwixt  the  two  of  us  the  time 

We  spoke  together  last. 

Yet  now,  Mavourneen,  when  they  play 

"The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green," 
The  March  wind  blows  and  mocking  still 

Across  the  stile  you  lean. 
But  gazing  down  into  your  eyes, 

I'm  dreaming,  Norah,  dear, 
The  light  that  shines  and  sparkles  there 

Is  now — was  then — a  tear. 

M.  E.  W 


A   HOUSEHOLD   HINT 

SHE  practices,  my  jealous  wife, 
A  cruelty  refined ; 
A  sorcery  by  which  she  keeps 
Me  exiled  from  my  kind. 

If,  evenings,  I  attend  the  club, 
My  fellow-men  will  flee  ; 

If  at  a  soiree  I  appear, 
No  girl  will  sit  by  me. 

I  pray,  but  to  her  face  so  mild — 

Of  look — -it  only  calls 
A  siren  smile.      She  keeps  my  clothes 

Done  up  in  naphtha-balls. 

4 


A   HOPELESS    CASE 

HER  sisters  shunned  her  half  in  fear 
And  half  in  pity.      "'Tis  too  bad 
She  is  not  made  as  \ve,  poor  dear." 
(Four  leaves  instead  of  three  she  had.) 


Said  Doctor  Bee:    "Her  case  is  rare 
And  due  to  influence  prenatal, 

To  amputate  I  would  not  dare, 
The  operation  might  be  fatal. 


"  With  rest  and  care  and  simple  food 
She  may  outlive  both  you  and  me. 

A  change  of  air  might  do  her  good." 

(One  bag  of  honey  was  his  fee.) 

6 


"  Take  me  !   take  me  !  "  the  clovers  cry 
To  the  maid  bending  wistful  eyed. 

With  gentle  hand  she  puts  them  by 
Till  all  but  one  are  passed  aside. 

Before  her  sisters'  wondering  eyes 

Her  leaves  are  kissed  and  counted  over. 

"  You've  brought  me  hope,"  the  maiden  cries, 
"  God  bless  you,  little  tour-leaved  clover." 
Oliver  HerfinL 


MARJORIE'S  CHOICE 

MARJORIE  stole  to  my  study 
And  whispered  low  in  my  ear, 
"I'd  like  to  select  my  present 

This  Christmas.      Can't  I,  dear? 
To  make  me  perfectly  happy 

There's  but  one  thing  I  lack, 
So  to-morrow  I'd  like  you  to  give  me 
Permission  to  marry  Jack." 


I've  often  invested  at  Christmas 

In  diamonds  and  pictures  galore, 
But  never  a  single  present 

Was  half  so  dear   before ; 
More  than  the  rarest  jewels 

This  cost  me,  I  confess, 
Though  'twas  only  a  scrap  of  paper 

On  which  I  had  written  "  Yes." 

Dixie  Wolcott. 


A   WOMAN'S  CLUB 


CHAIR  installed, 
"Order!  "called; 

Hurried  meetings, 
Whispered  greetings. 

Minutes  read — 
"  What  was  said?" 

"  Move,  repeated  !" 
"  Please  be  seated  !" 

"  Reports,  if  any  ?  " 

'  <  Some ! "  « «  How  many  ? ' ' 

"  Twenty -five." 

("Sakes  alive!") 

"What's  your  will?" 
"Defer  'em  still!" 

"  That  petition?" 
"  Same  condition 

As  before." 
("What  a  bore!") 


"  Power  to  build?" 
"  Action  killed 

In  committee." 
("What  a  pity!") 

"  Business,  new  ?" 
"  Yes;   a  few  ! 

Ten  resigned — 
Thirty  fined." 

"  Causes,  state  ?" 
"Can't  !"      "Too  late!" 

"  Reasons,  pray  ?  " 

' <  The  matinee  ! ' ' 

"  Club  dismissed  !" 
Rivals  kissed. 

Business  done  : — 
Simply  none  ! 

T.  D.  Be  as  ley. 


DOROTHY 

DOROTHY  doing  crewel  work, 
Ah,  what  a  charming  sight ! 
Needle  that  glances  in  and  out, 
Eyes  with  a  glance  as  bright. 
Finished  the  work  and  thrown  aside, 

Alas,  for  my  heart  so  true  ! 
Needle  and   glance  have   pierced  alike, 
Dorothy's  eyes  do  cruel  work  too  ! 


r 

TO 
NIKOLA   TESLA 

YOU    tell    us    you 
alone  have  found 
The    way    to  reach 

the  stars ; 
But  Venus,  years   and 

years  ago, 
Got  messages 

from  Mars  ! 


WHERE? 

WHERE  is  the  man  who  can  bravely  say, 
"I  have  loved  her,  all  my  life — 
Since  I  took  her  hand  on  the  wedding-day 
I  have  only  loved  my  wife?  " 

Would  we  not  praise  him  long  and  well 

With  the  warmest  praise  that  is, 
The  man  who  could  boldly,  firmly  tell, 

And  stick  to — a  lie  like  this? 


LOVE'S  EXPRESS 

COME,  all  ye  lads  and  lassies, 
Come,  every  sighing  swain, 
All  aboard  tor  Blissful  City — 
This  is  the  lovers'  train  ! 

Dan  Cupid  is  conductor, 

Old  Story  the  engine  takes, 
Young  Hope  is  an  able  fireman, 

With  Reason  at  the  brakes. 

Love-at-first-sight  gives  you  passes 
That  take  you  through  the  gate, 

And  Mutual  LJnderstandingville 
Is  a  pleasant  place  to  wait. 

When  nearing  Rival  Junction 
Throw  all  the  switches  wide — 

Well  sanded,  on  Proposal  Bridge 
The  engine  wheels  won't  slide. 

Fire  up  at  Lovers'  Quarrel, 

The  signal's  a  word  or  less; 
Side-track  at  Slender  Income 

For  Worldly-wise  Express. 

To  stop  at  What-is-prudent 

'Tis  hazardous  to  try; 
Go  slow  at  Parental  Blessing, 

And  wave  a  last  good-bye. 

One  ring  at  Engagement  Crossing, 
The  conductor  calls  out  soon  : 

"  Change  cars  for  Paradise   Limited, 
First  stop  is  Honeymoon  !" 

Lucy   J.  Milter. 

13 


BUT! 

apologies  to  M.  Edmond  Rostand.") 

THE    MAN. 
I  do  not  love,  but — 

LOVE. 

In  truth  he  does  not  love, 
But — every  time  my  lady  passes  him, 
His  soul  is  all  aflame,  his  blood  aglow 
With  life,  his  mind  a  mass  of"  hair 
And  laughing  eyes,  and  curves  and  swerves 
Of  every  movement.      Oh,  no — he  does  not  love, 
But  when  you  speak  of  hate,  his  soul  revolts 
To  find  a  thorn  upon  the  rose's  stem  ; 
He  plucks  a  flower  for  itself  alone. 
Love — oh,  no  !      But  when  he  hears  her  voice 
Sift  with  its  silv'ry  notes  into  the  air, 
And  feels  its  freedom ;   when  he  learns  that  she 
And  that  one  flower  that  she  wears  at  night — 
A  snowy  puff  within  a  coil  of  gold, 
Are  one  with  Nature  in  her  gift  of  life — 
He  gleans  the  good  of  being  !     Love?      Why,  no! 
But  ah  !  that  But — the  doubt  of  Love  ! 
He  loves  not — but  there  comes  the  passion-throb 
That  bursts  its  bounds,  that  lends  the  universe 
A  tongue  that  speaks  of  her,  that  gives  the  eye 
The  will  to  find  her  in  the  evening  star — 
And  ear  to  hear  her  in  the  whisp'ring  wind. 
He  does  not  love — but  when  he  feels  himself 
Beyond  himself,  he  calls  on  me  to  speak 
For  him,  his  friend — Oh,  no  !  he  does  not  love  ! 

Montr  os  e  J.  Moses. 


I 


AUGUST 

HER  sunshade  !      O,  her  sunshade  ! 
There's  not  a  summer's  day 
But  what  it  comes  a-flaunting 

Along  the  dusty  way. 
An  aureole,  a  banner, 
A  flame  of  rosy  red 
Behind  her  slender  shoulder, 
Above  her  shining  head. 

15 


The  passing  wind  blows  over, 

And  faith,  'tis  set  aswing 
Like  some  new-opened  poppy, 

An  airy,  fairy  thing  ! 
A  tiny,  tiny  sunshade, 

You'd  scarcely  say  would  do 
For  one — and  yet  Clarissa's 

Are  always  meant  for  two ! 

What  wonder  that  my  fancy 

Goes  wandering  a-dream 
Beneath  that  dainty  shelter 

By  many  a  babbling  stream, 
O'er  many  a  sunlit  meadow 

Beside  her,  and  so  near 
That  careless  as  her  heart  beats 

'Tis  all  the  sound  I  hear. 

The  echo  wakes.      She's  coming. 

She's  here — she  hesitates. 
She  glances  at  my  window. 

It  is  for  me  che  waits  ! 
O  sunshade,  little  sunshade, 

Above  us  two  unfurled, 
Your  narrow  arch  shuts  in  for  me 

A  whole  enchanted  world  ! 

M.  E.  W. 


HIS  HOME-BROUGHT  LUGGAGE 

ITEM  :   A  battered  dressing  case. 
Items :    A  game  bag  and  a  gun. 
Item:   A  girl's  bright  pictured  face. 
Item  :   One  dollar — and  only  one. 
16 


•  •' 


' 


CUPID'S    PICNIC 

CUPID 

pcnic 


gave 


Once  of  a  summer's  day, 

And  invited  all  the  other  loves 

To  join  him  in  his  play. 
There  was  Big  Love  and  Little  Love, 

And  The  Love  that  Flies  Away, 
And  Naughty  Love  and  Haughty  Love, 

And  The  Love  that  Loves  Alway. 
And  Long  Love  and  Strong  Love, 

And  Love  for  the  Happy  Hour, 
And  Love  that  Loves  for  Love  Alone, 

And  Love  with  the  Visage  Sour. 
Yet  the  picnic  proved  a  failure, 

For  the  best  loves  stayed  away — 
The  Constant  Love  and  The  Tender  Love, 

And  The  Love  that  Ne'er  says  Nay. 

James   5.    Metcalfe. 
17 


THE  SLEEPING-CAR  SHOW 

all  funny  sights  that  you  and  I  know, 
Is   there  aught  that  can   rival  the  sleeping-cai 
show  ? 

Blue  and  green  curtains  close  hung  in  a  row 
Red  velvet  straps  silver  numbers  all  show ; 
Silence  pervades  all,  until  here  and  there 
Peeps  out  a  foot,  or  it  may  be  a  pair  ; 
White  stockings,  black  stockings,  big  feet  and  small. 
Under  the  curtains  we  look  at  them  all. 
Here  comes  a  fat  leg — here  comes  a  thin, 
Rapidly  thrusting  their  trousers  within. 
Out  bulge  the  curtains,  early  birds  smile, 
Solid  obstructions  are  packed  in  the  aisle. 
Out  peeps  a  face — the  coast,  is  it  clear  ? — 
Ladies,  go  that  way ;  gentlemen  here. 
Collarless,  coatless,  with  tumbled-down  hair, 
Tall  men  and  short  to  the  washroom  repair ; 
Tumbled  and  anxious  in  wrapper  and  skirt, 
Each  woman  rivals  the  knight  of  the  shirt ; 
Sex  has  no  standing,  they're  equally  frights 
As  they  make  up  a  part  of  the  sleeping-car  sights. 
Yet  hold  !      There  is  one  great  discrimination 
For  which  Pullman  and  Wagner  give  no  explanation : 
The  washrooms  for  ladies  have  partial  seclusion, 
And  a  curtain  and  door  prevent  undue  intrusion  ; 
But  the  washbowls  for  men  are  out  in  full  view, 
And  the  public  in  passing  can  see  what  they  do. 
Oh,  tell  me!   of  all  funny  sights  that  you  know, 
Is  there  aught  that  can  rival  the  sleeping-car  show  ? 

L.  A.  C.  W. 


B 


time 


TTKRE'S  to  the  tranquil  yesterday 
-1  *•      When  Folk  had  time  to  dream  and  woo. 
And  men  found  leisure,  so  they  say, 
To  turn  a  mot  and  tie  a  queue. 


Ah,   then   was   heard   with 

much  ado 
The  postman's  knock  a- 

down  the  Row 
fl   That  brought  to    Peg    and 

Pris  and  Prue 
The  Valentine  of    long 
ago. 


Then  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way 
Did  love-lorn  lad  coy  rhyme  pursue, 

That  he  his  passion  might  convey 
In  "Lines  "  to  Sylvia  or  Sue. 


Pale  dawn  the  casement  glimmered  through, 
And  oft  the  candle  flickered  low, 

While  from  that  lover's  fancy  grew 
The  Valentine  of  long  ago. 


To  damosel  in  quaint  array, 

Though  February  breezes  blew, 

Came  softly  as  the  breath  of  May 
That  subtly-scented  billet-doux 
21 


That  'neath  her  curls  and  love-knot  blue, 
Set  both  her  pretty  cheeks  a-glovv, 

With   rhymes    of  "  Thee"    and    "  Thou" 

and  "  You  " — 
The  Valentine  of  long  ago. 

ENVOI. 

Cupid,  your  skillful  aim,  and  true, 

Your  vaunted  shafts,  your  boasted  bow 

Are  futile  when  compared  unto 
The  Valentine  of  long  ago. 

Jennie  Belts  Hartswick. 


OPPORTUNITY 

\X7ERE  human  wisdom  wise  enough 

*  *        To  warn  us,  e'er  belated, 
Life's  one  best  chance  would  ne'er  be  lost 
Because  too  long  we  waited. 

Or  even  if  poor  human  wit 

Were  keen  enough  or  stronger, 
'Twould  urge  a  quest  for  second  best, 

Instead  of  dallying  longer. 

But  wit  and  wisdom  oft  delay  ; 

And  thus  full  many  a  mortal 
Ne'er  gains  the  temple  of  success, 

Though  standing  at  its  portal. 

Labelle  H.  Ferry. 


22 


SHE  knows  him  well  to  speak  to, 
But  doesn't  know  him  by  sight. 
And  if  you  guess  she's  a  telephone  girl, 
I  guess  that  you'll  be  right. 

LOVE'S    CALENDAR 

Sunday.    \/T  V  lover  comes  to  woo ; 

•L' J-      A  day  of  passion  and  kisses. 

Monday.    I  find  naught  else  to  do 

But  revel  in  my  recent  blisses. 

Tuesday.   I  ponder  on  my  sin, 

Half-cherishing,  half-regretting ; 

Wednesday.   I  promise  to  begin 

To  cast  out  passion  and  its  fretting. 

Thursday.    The  hours  pass  slowly  by, 

I  feel  a  doubting,  restless  yearning; 

Friday.   I  think  that  I  should  die, 

Should  aught   prevent    my    love's 
returning. 

Saturday.   With  vague  alarms, 

And    mingled    thrills    of  joy   and 

sorrow, 

I  dream  of  love-encircling  arms 
And  long,  unceasing,  for  the  mor 
row. 

Rufus  Cyrene  MacDonald. 
23 


TWO  HEARTS 

THERE  is  a  heart— 
Of"  fragile  clay  'tis  made, 
And  art 
Has  laid, 
In  lines — 
Twining  vines 
And  violets  everywhere 
Upon  its  surface;  it  is  fair — 
They  call  it   Dresden,  and  "Take  care'* 
Is  placed  upon  it ;   bonbonniere 
They  call  it  too,  and  those  who  come  to  see, 
Take  it  up  so  carefully — 
Lest  they  make 
A  slip,  and  it  should  break. 

There  is  a  heart — 

Of  fragile  clay  'tis  made, 
And  from  the  start, 

Life  has  laid 
The  ebb  and  flow 

And  glow 

Of  Love  upon  it ;   it  is  fair — 
We  call  it  human — Oh,  take  care 
Lest  bitterness  should  jar  it, 
And  mar  it — 

And  let  us  touch  it  gently,  lest  we  make 
A  slip,  and  it  should  break. 

Montr ose  J.  Moses, 


TO    BELINDA 

>'  I  MS  Lent,  Belinda.      Thou  must  hie 

•*•        To  cloistered  walls  where  shadows  lie, 
And  undisturbed  in  thy  domain 
Plan  all  thy  conquests  o'er  again! 

25 


THE    FATAL    RHYME 

THERE  was  a  man  upon  a  time 
Who  could  not  speak  except  in  rhyme. 
He  could  not  voice  his  smallest  wish. 
He  could  not  order  soup  or  fish. 


He  could  not  hail  a  passing  car. 
He  could  not  ask  for  a  cigar, 
And  let  a  rhymeless  sentence  mar 
His  speech.      He  could  not  vent  despair, 
Anger  or  rage — he  could  not  swear. 
He  could  not  even  have  his  say 
On  common  topics  of  the  day, 
The  dreadful  cold — the  awful  heat, 
The  rise  in  coal,  the  fall  in  wheat. 
He  could  not  rise  to  give  his  seat 
26 


In  crowded  car  to  maiden  sweet, 
Or  buy  a  paper  in  the  street 
Except  in  measured  rhyming  feet. 


"  He  must  have  been  a  man  of  means  ! 
In  this,  the  age  of  magazines  !  " 
I  hear  you  say.      Ah,  reader,  wait 
Till  you  have  heard  his  awful  fate. 
You  will  not  then  expatiate 

Upon  his  fortune 

Well,  one  night 
A  burglar  came,  and  at  the  sight, 


The  rhymster  took  a  fearful  fright. 
The  only  avenue  tor  flight 
Was  up  the  chimney  ;  here  he  climbed 
Until  he  stuck — and  then  he  rhymed 
As  follows  : 

* '  Goodness  gracious  me  ! 

Fm  stuck  as  tight  as  tight  can  be  ! 

Oh,  dear,  V m  in  an  awful  plight. 

I  cannot  budge  to  left  or  right, 

Or  up — or  down  this  awful  chimney  !  '  * 


art 


Then  he  was  stuck — had  he  said  "  Jimm'ny  !  " 
It  would  have  saved  him  many  a  pang. 
But,  no  !   he  could  not  stoop  to  slang. 
In  vain  he  writhed  and  racked  his  brain 
For  rhymes  to  chimney.      It  was  plain 
29 


He  bad  to  rhyme — for  should  he  cease 
He  must  forever  hold  his  peace. 
He  tried  to  shout,  he  tried  to  call. 
The  truth  fell  on  him  like  a  pall. 
There  isn't  any  rhyme  at  all 
To  chimney. — 

When  they  searched  the  room 
They  found  it  silent  as  a  tomb. 
For  years  they  advertised  in  vain. 
They  never  heard  from  him  again. 

Oliver  Herford. 
30 


APRES    COUP 

T  F  some  poetic  lyre  were  mine, 

A      And  I  could  sweep  the  mellow  strings 

And  usher  into  life  divine 

The  rhapsody  on  wayward  wings 
Meandering  through  my  brain  to-night — 

Think  you  my  melody  would  be 
Of  her  whose  sylph-like  form  in  white 

Leans  from  this  leaf-hid  balcony? 

Of  her  whose  eyes  to  mine  have  burned 

The  love  despairing  Sappho  wrote, 
Whose  eyes  away  from  mine  have  turned 

To  watch  some  dreamy  star  remote, 
Whose  cheek  rests  pensive  on  an  arm 

Circled  with  gems  and  white  as  snow, 
Half-hid  within  whose  tresses  warm 

The  queenly  sapphires  are  aglow? 

Ah,  no  !      World-taught  I  know  too  well 

The  part  my  charming  lady  plays — 
That  down  the  wild,  melodious  swell 

Of  music  and  the  ballroom's  blaze 
Too  soon  the  lace-robed  fay  will  flit, 

And  those  dear  eyes  that  kindle  here 
Will  sparkle  at  the  vapid  wit 

Of  some  insipid  cavalier. 

Her  blushing  rose — so  vain  for  naught, 

Spurned  in  an  hour,  forgot — is  blest ; 

But  in  the  drear,  near  afterthought 

My  name  may  be  recalled  in  jest. 


And  so,  if  Praed's  own  lyre  to-night 

Were  mine,  my  song  would  hardly  be 

Of  her  whose  glorious  form  in  white 
Leans  from  this  dusky  balcony. 

Richard  Plantagenet. 


THE  THIRD   PROPOSITION 

IF  I  were  thine,  I'd  fail  not  of  endeavor 
The  loftiest, 
To  make  thy  daily  life,  now  and  forever, 

Supremely  blest  — 
I'd     watch     thy    moods,    I'd    toil     and     wait,    with 

yearning, 

Incessant  incense  at  thy  dear  shrine  burning, 
If  I  were  thine. 

If   thou    wert    mine,    quite   changed    would   be   these 
features. 

Then,  I  suspect, 
Thou  would'st  the  humblest  prove  of  loving  creatures, 

And  not  object 

To  do  the  very  things  I  am  declaring 
I'd  undertake  for  tbee,  with  selfless  daring, 

If  thou  wert  mine. 

If  we  were  ours?      And  now,  here  comes  the  riddle  ! 

How  would  that  work  ? 
I'm  sure  you'd  never  stoop  to  second  fiddle, 

And — I  might  shirk 

The  part  of  serf.      And,  likewise,  each  might  neither 
Be  willing  slave  or  servitor  of  either, 
If  we  were  ours  ! 

Madeline  Bridges. 
32 


THE   SIGN    OF   THE    MISTLETOE 

F.RE  is  the  Sign  of  the  Mistletoe? 

Out  in  the  hall  where  the  light  burns  low. 
There — in  the  shade  of  the  Christmas  tree. 
Here — with  nobody  near  to  see. 


r 


What  is   the  Sign    of 

the  Mistletoe  ? 
A  sprig  of  green  and  some 

berries  ?      No  ! 
Two  red   lips  and  a  tilted 

nose  ; 

Two  bright  eyes  and  two 
cheeks  of  rose. 

What  are  the  rates  at  the 

Mistletoe  ? 

For  him  who  is  given  ad 
mittance — oh, 
'Tis   only  a    matter    (they 

say)  of  trade 

'Twixt   lips  of  a  man  and 
the  lips  of 

a  maid. 
Edwin  L.  Sabin. 


33 


ASTRONOMY 

THE  moon  let  down  her  silver  hair 
In  ripples  on  the  sea — 
She  loosed  each  diamond  pin  with  care 

And  stuck  it  carefully 
In  the  dark  pincushion  of  the  sky. 
"  Ah  !   now,"  I  said,   "  I  know  the  why 

And  wherefore  of  the  stars. 
I  always  used  to  think  at  night, 
To  see  them  shine,  they  were  the  light 

Of  Seraphim's  cigars. 
Now  I  have  learned,  and  none  too  soon, 
They  are  the  hairpins  of  the  moon." 

Oliver  Herford. 

CUPID'S  DEFENSE 

THEY  call  me  a  poacher,  an  outlaw. 
I  hunt  out  of  season,  they  say. 
But  I  note,  just  the  same, 
Though  I  caution  my  game, 
That  it  seldom  gets  out  of  my  way. 

They  say  I  am  cruel  to  maidens 

For  planting  my  shafts  in  their  hearts. 
That  so?     Well,  it's  strange 
That  they  will  get  in  range, 
So  many  fair  breasts,  of  my  darts. 

They  cry  that  my  arrows  are  cruel, 
Productive  of  exquisite  pain. 
Then  it's  queer,  what  a  lot 
Of  poor  hearts,  one  time  shot, 
Hover  'round  me  again  and  again  ! 

Paul  West. 
35 


WATHA 
TO    DATE 


IAWATHA,  wandering  westward, 

In  the  land  they  call  Dakota, 
Came  upon  a  lovely  maiden 

Floating  down  stream  in  a  boat-a — 
In  a  boat  afloating  down  stream. 

Long  he  gazed  upon  the  maiden, 
Wondering  that  she  should  have  strayed  in 
To  the  forest,  deep  and  gloomy — 
By  herself,  into  the  forest. 

And  he  watched  her  as  she  paddled 
'Mong  the  bushes,  out  and  in-nie. 

Wished  she'd  look  in  his  direction — 

Coughed,  and  called  out  :    "  Ha-ha-Minnie  ! 

And  the  maiden,  nothing  daunted, 
Cast  her  eyes  across  the  water — 

Looked,  and  saw  her  future  master — 

Waved,  and  cried — "  Oh,  hello  Arthur  !  " 

Thus  the  two  became  acquainted — 
Quite  a  thrilling  story,  ain't  it  ? 
36 


Long  he  woo'd  the  gentle  Minnie, 
Though  she  was  not  stout,  but  skinny! 
Wishing  that  his  arms  were  stronger 
So  that  he  might  hug  her  longer — 
Hug  her  close,  and  hug  her  longer  ! 


37 


And  he  won  the  fair  young  Minnie — 
Took  her  to  his  home  and  mother, 

Took  her  East  to  live  in  Harlem — 
In  a  little  flat  to  smother — 
Work  for  him,  and  slowly  smother  ! 


Then  began  a  year  of  trouble  ! 

No  more  smiles  and  no  more  laughter- 
Minnie  longed  for  Western  freedom — 
He,  the  land  of  the  Hereafter — 
For  the  land  of  the  Hereafter  ! 


Once  again  we  see  our  hero — 
Hiawatha,  rushing  westward 
To  the  State  they  call  Dakota — 
To  the  land  of  rest  and  freedom  ! 


39 


Can  you  guess  what  for  ?      Of  cour-se, 
Gone  to  get  a  quick  divor-ce 
From  the  girl  now  grown  more  skinny  ! 
Such  is  life  !      Well,  ta-ta,  Minnie  !  ! 

W^  C.  Smith. 


FINIS. 


40 


THE   RAGLAN    COAT 

WHEN  people  wrote  upon  the  rocks, 
In  Nature's  rude  environment, 
Before  they  learned  the  use  of  locks, 

Or  even  knew  what  iron  meant, 
In  age  we  call  the  pliocene — 
Or  was  it  known  as  miocene? — 

A  million  years  remote, 
Some  monkey -man  arboreal 
Conceived  the  weird  sartorial 

Design  we  call  a  Raglan  coat. 

Before  the  sky  was  rounded  out, 

When  earth  was  in  the  plastic  stage — 
It  was,  beyond  a  single  doubt, 

A  very  loose,  elastic  age — 
Some  husky  old  pre-Adamite, 
Who  ne'er  of  pity  had  a  mite, 

That  ever  he  might  gloat 
O'er  all  his  fellows  foolishly, 
Sat  down  to  think,  and  ghoulishly 

Designed  for  them  the  Raglan  coat. 

They  wore  it  in  the  days  of  Rome. 

Old  Cassius,  who  affected  it, 
So  stingy  was  he  drank  the  foam, 

Nor  ever  once  neglected  it. 
When  Brutus  stabbed  that  friend  of  his, 
To  serve  a  selfish  end  of  his, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat, 
The  savage,  gleaming  knife  he  used, 
Which,  taking  Caesar's  life,  he  used, 

He  carried  in  his  Raglan  coat. 

In  all  the  ages — ever  since 

We  heard  the  very  first  of  it — 


Its  wicked  deeds  have  made  us  wince, 
And  we  have  got  the  worst  of  it. 

When  Nero  burned  his  city  down, 

And  sent  a  rattling  ditty  down 
From  where  he  sat  to  gloat, 

His  inspiration  fiery 

He  set  down  in  his  diary — 

His  wife  had  bought  a  Raglan  coat. 

Willis  Leonard  Clanahan. 


SET  FREE 

OEETNG  my  life  so  full  of  love  and  you, 
^      That  little  else  finds  charity,  you  dared 

Sweetly  to  ask  me,  dearest,  how  I  fared 
Before  you  came  !  I'll  answer  you  as  true 
As  you  were  bold  :  I  did  not  live  so  ill ; 

For  if  my  daily  food  was  scanty  fare 

I  took  it  uncomplaining,  as  my  share 
Of  this  world's  happiness  and  grief;  until 
You  laid  your  hand  upon  the  barred-up  door 

That  gives  on  Heaven,  and  set  it  open.      Then 

I  found  my  liberty,  and  knew  at  last 
My  dwelling  was  a  prison-house  before 

You  came,  my  sky  the  ceiling  of  a  den, 
And  my  best  feast  a  bread-and-water  fast. 

Henry  Chapman. 


42 


\    CORONET'S 


no  proper  hat, 
And    ermine    on    robes    sug-  Lk 

gests  cat.  i  * 

I  don't  like  his  frills, 
And      papa      hates     his 

bills, 

But  a    peer  is  a  peer  for  all 
that. 


43 


THE    QUARREL 

THE  Laurel  started  the  affair- 
He  called  the  Rose  a  vain  coquette. 
The  Rose  replied,  "  She  did  not  care 

What  people  thought  outside  her  set  !  " 
"  Faith  !  you  speak  true  !  "  the  Laurel  cried. 

"  The  Rose  and  Laurel  only  meet 
When  on  the  Hero's  head  we  ride, 

And  you  are  tossed  beneath  his  feet." 
The  Rose  retorted  :    "I  recall 

More  than  one  Hero  who  threw  down 
His  laurel  wreath,  his  honor,  all 

For  one  red  rose  from  Beauty's  crown." 
The  Laurel  frowned  :    "  'Tis  as  you  say, 

And  yet  it  cannot  he  gainsayed 
Their  laurels  are  undimmed  to-day 

Save  by  the  folly  of  that  trade  !  " 

44 


"  Your  reasoning's  false,"  exclaimed  the  Rose. 

"  Your  premises  are  falser  yet  ; 
Your  sentiment  is  all  a  pose. 

Besides,  you  are  not  in  my  set  !  " 

UNMORAL. 
'Twixt  Duty,  here  below,  and  Love, 

Alas  !  we  see  a  great  gulf  fixed. 
Perchance  they* re  introduced  above.  / 

In  Heaven,  society  is  mixed.  " 

*' 


45 


MY   LADY'S  SLIPPERS 

TWO  bits  of  satin  deftly  cut,  and  sewn 
To  humbler  leather  of  the  length  and  span 
Titania  might  have  chosen  for  her  own  ; 

Two  curving  arches  fashioned  on  the  plan 
A  King  has  lent  his  name  to,  lifting  high 
Her  dainty  feet  above  all  earthly  things, 
While  lighting  each  its  way  a  brilliant  flings 
Its  rays  to  guide  her  as  she  passes  by. 

Oh,  fairy  wonders  of  the  craftsman's  art, 
What  elfin  trick  is  this  that  you  have  played 
That  you  should  thus  misguide  a  trusting  maid  ! 

You've  led  her,  wandering,  straight  into  my  heart. 

R.  D.  W. 


D 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT 
(To  THE   GIRL  WE  ALL  KNOW.) 
EAR,  if  I  might,  I'd  give  no  gems, 


Nor  fabrics  fair, 
Nor  roses  on  long  royal  stems, 
Nor  pictures  rare  ; 

Not  even  books,  to  make  you  wise, 

Were  there  such  need — 
But  I  would  give  a  grander  prize, 

Greater,  indeed, 

Than  the  most  high  accomplishment 

Your  wish  could  crave — 
The  grace,  sweetheart,  to  be  content 
With  what  you  have  ! 

Madeline  Bridges. 
46 


A  NUMERICAL  LOVE  TRAGEDY 

WHEN  first  I  saw  sweet   Josephine, 
I  loved  her  madly  all  the  day, 
And  all  the  other  maids  I'd  seen 
Grew  dim — they  faded  quite  away. 

47 


Her  classic  face,  her  sweet  voice  low, 
And  also  divers  things  she  said, 

Were  quite  too  much  for  me,  and  so 
I  lost  my  heart  (but  not  my  head). 


And  when  I  met  demure  Suzanne, 
What  else,  I  pray,  was  there  to  do? 

With  girls  like  these,  for  every  man 
There's  much  excuse  for  loving  two. 

48 


And  so  I  fell  in  love  with  her, 
A  passion  true,  I  must  confess, 

And  tho'  some  critics  may  demur, 
I  loved  not  Josephine  the  less. 


In  love  with 


two 


It  isn't  right. 


By  some  it  may  be  thought  absurd, 

Yet  when  fair  Julia  caught  my  sight, 

I'll  swear  to  you  I  loved  a  third  ! 


49 


Alas  !      Poor  sinner,  once  I  gazed 
On  Janet's  face  (one  to  be  kissed 

As  you  can  see)  1  was  quite  fazed. 
A  fourth  !      I  could  not  well  resist. 

But  now  my  heart  is  put  to  rout, 

For  they  have  all  rejected  me, 
Because,  forsooth,  each  one  found  out 

How  much  I  loved  the  other  three  ! 

Tom  Masson. 
50 


H 


THE  BLOT  ON  POLLY'S  BONNET 

"OW  many  causes  intertwine 
To  make  a  perfect  whole  ! 
What  wondrous  power,  what  vast  design, 

Must  pay  its  little  toll  ! 
No  earth  attainment  now  we  see 

But  bears  some  tribute  on  it 
From  ev'ry  human  industry  ; 
For  instance,  Polly's  bonnet. 

She  calls  it  a  "creation,"  small 

And  simple  as  can  be, 
And  sees  no  miracle  at  all 

In  its  simplicity  ; 
But  when  1  try  to  figure  out 

The  things  that  helped  to  make  it, 
So  fast  the  pictures  crowd  about 

1  hate  to  undertake  it. 

The  tip,  that  little  tip  that  shakes 

So  saucily  on  high, 
Was  plucked  one  day,  far,  far  away, 

Beneath  an  Afric  sky. 
I  see  a  lordly  ostrich  stand 

And  lay  its  off' ring  down, 
To  help  to  make,  for  Polly's  sake, 

The  prettiest  hat  in  town. 

A  little  valley  next  appears, 

And  on  the  screen  I  see 
Dull  peasants  toiling  through  the  years, 

And  trees  of  mulberry  ; 
'Tis  France,  where  silkworms  live  and  spin 

And  yield  for  loom  and  mat 
The  shining  threads  that  tremble  in 

This  simple,  little  hat. 

51 


Next,  wondrous  fields  of  rustling  gold 

Upon  my  mem'ry  come, 
The  horses  tugging  through  the  mold, 

The  reapers'  busy  hum  ; 
And  skillful  hands  are  plaiting  straw, 

And  mystic  patterns  gleam 
To  make  a  dainty  framework  for 

What  Polly  calls  her  "dream." 

But  what  is  this,  with  azure  wing 

Upon  the  sunshine  borne  ? 
A  little  bird,  a  beauteous  thing, 

Trills  gayly  to  the  morn  ; 
I  w^atch  him  bend  his  graceful  head, 

As  flitting  blithely  by, 
He  darts  away  in  merry  play 

Beneath  the  summer  sky. 

A  shot  rings  out ;   the  leaden  rain 

Sheds  darkness  all  around, 
And  writhing  in  its  cruel  pain, 

The  bird  lies  on  the  ground  ; 
A  stream  of  blood  its  body  yields, 

It  quivers  and  is  still ; 
And  murder  stains  the  yellow  fields, 

And  fashion  pays  the  bill. 

So,  suddenly  my  fancy  stays, 

No  beauty  can  I  see ; 
Gone  all  the  charming  daintiness, 

The  sham  simplicity  ; 
And  Polly's  face  seems  grown  less  fair 

Beneath  her  dainty  bonnet, 
For  a  little  mangled  body  there 

Has  set  death's  seal  upon  it. 

John  R.  R  a  thorn. 
52 


THE  TRUTH  THAT   HURTS 

WISDOM  hath  she  beyond  all  other  women 
Who    for    a    husband    the    lover     indifferent 

chooseth, 

She  kno\veth  well  that  love  of  indifference  born 
Is  better  than  love  to  indifference  grown. 

Foolish  is  she  in  her  own  generation 
Who,  when  she  hath  wedded  her  lover,  cries,  broken 
hearted, 

"  'Tis  not  the  man  I  have  loved  !      'Tis  another  !" 
Hath  not  love  ever  played  mortals  these  tricks  ? 

So,  fair  one,  tarry  and  worry  no  longer 

In  choosing  whom   you  shall  marry.      These  teachings 

remember : 

Love  ever  deceiveth  ;   and,  choose  whom  you  may, 
You  will  find  you  have  wedded  a  stranger. 

Helen  Hannah  Clifford. 


LINES  TO  A  GRAY  SISTER 


'IXT'HEN  lovely  woman  touches  forty, 

*   *         And  finds,  too  soon,  her  hair  is  gray. 
What  charm  can  make  her  blithe  and  sporty  ~ 
And  hide  the  fact  that  she's  passe? 

There's  but  one  way  to  make  her  pleasing 
And  bring  back  gladness  to  her  eye, 

So,  fast  the  horns  of  Taurus  seizing, 
Her  only  refuge  is  —  to  dye  ! 

Dick  Law. 


53 


LOOKING    FOR   A    GIRL 

I  WAS  standing  on  the  corner 
Of  a  very  busy  street  ; 
Passing  time  while  I  was  waiting 
For  a  friend  I  wished  to  meet. 
I  had  waited  twenty  minutes 
And  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl  : 
I  was  looking  for  a  girl. 

Tall  girls,  short  girls,  girls  of  middle  height  ; 

Stout  girls,  thin  girls,  girls  of  brawn  and  might  ; 

Young  girls,  old  girls,  girls  of  every  age  ; 

And  the  dreamy  matinee  girl  from  the  fashion  paper's  page. 

I  maintained  my  careful  vigil 

Though   my  eyes  were  growing 
weak  ; 

I  was  just  a  trifle  dizzy 

And  a  flush  was  in  my  cheek. 

I  had  waited  forty  minutes 

And  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl  : 
I  was  waiting  for  a  girl. 


Prim  girls,  trim  girls,  girls  of  every  size; 

Fair  girls,  rare  girls,  girls  with  angel  eyes  ; 

Prude  girls,  rude  girls,  bashful  girls  and  shy  ; 

And  the  girl  of  comic  opera  with  the  naughty  little  eye. 

I  grew  faint,  and  weak,  and  thirsty, 

And  my  back  was  bent  with  pain  ; 
1  felt  a  strange  sensation 

At  the  bottom  of  my  brain. 
1  had  waited  sixty  minutes, 

With  my  luckless  brain  awhirl  : 

Just  waiting  for  a  girl. 

Pale  girls,  frail  girls,  girls  of  slender  waist  ; 
Blonde  girls,  dark  girls,  girls  of  paint  and  paste  ; 
Gibson  girls,  Christie  girls,  girls  both  mild  and  rash  ; 
And  the  supple-limbed  athletic  girl  who  always  '«  cuts 
a  dash." 

Beware  my  fate,  kind  reader, 

Should  you  chance  upon  these  lines  ; 

A  little  ten  by  seven  now 
My  wasted  self  confines. 

They  tell  me  that  I'm  harmless, 
That  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl  : 
All  through  looking  for  a  girl. 

Celt  girls,  svelte  girls,  girls  cut  a  la  mode  ; 
Quiet  girls,  riot  girls,  girls  who've  "seen  the  road"  ; 
Bright  girls,  slight  girls,  all  make  a  phantom  new 
That  passes  through   my  mind  in  vague  kaleidoscopic 
view. 

Joseph  Eolton  Lougbry. 


55 


LOVE'S  ART 

LOVE  came  in  glee  with  poised  dart 
(He  chose  the  lightest  in  his  quiver), 
And  sought  to  speed  it  to  her  heart — 

She  turned  and  fled  with  frown  and  shiver. 

His  bold  steps  flew  in  swift  pursuit 

(Firm  purpose  in  his  tense  bow  brooded), 

Once  more  his  arrow  aimed  to  shoot : 
Once  more  the  angry  maid  eluded. 

He  followed  softly  on  her  way 

(His  suit  now  turned  to  accents  tender), 
What  word  Love's  art  could  prompt  to  say 

Was  sworn  in  his  vain  quest  to  bend  her. 

But  soon  he  fled  her  cruel  glance 

(With  crippled  wing  and  arrow  broken), 

Till  on  his  path  one  day  by  chance 

Her  footsteps  turn.      Then  all  unspoken 

His  sore  plight  smites  upon  her  heart 

(There  swift  once  more  Love's  arrow  presses); 
And  his  maimed  pinion's  every  smart 

Js  healed  with  pitying  caresses. 

L'ENVOI. 

Though  proof  to  moods  ('tis  woman's  hest) 

Of  boldness,  poesy,  or  laughter — 
When  pity's  leak  springs  in  her  breast 

Love's  dart  will  follow  swiftly  after. 


THE  RIGHT  SIDE  AND  THE  WRONG 
SIDE  OF  THE  BED 

,  Johnny  Jones's  bed  is  a  very  funny  bed. 
On  one  side  the  sun  shines  ever  bright, 
And  the  birds  all  sweetly  sing,  and  it's  gay  as  every 
thing, 
But  the  other  side  is  dark  and  drear  as  night. 

And  when  Johnny  Jones  awakes  he  must  care  which 

side  he  takes, 

As  the  rising  bell  is  calling,  merrily. 
If  the  wrong  side  out  he  gets,  all  the  day  he  fumes  and 

frets, 
And  is  generally  sent  to  bed  without  his  tea. 

But  if  he  jumps,  instead,  out  the  right  side  of  the  bed, 

Where  the  merry  sun  is  beaming,  bright  and  hot, 
He'll    be    happy  all  the  day,   at  his  books  or  at  his 

play, 

And  his  mamma' 11  give  him  candy,  like  as  not ! 

Paul  ITest. 


57 


BALLADE 

TO   THIS  YEAR'S  BUDS 
(  With  Acknowledgments  to  Villon  &  Swinburne. ) 

TELL  me,  I  pray,  in  what  countree 
Ts  Minnie,  our  Egyptian  dame  ? 
And  Berthe  and  lovely  Leonie, 

Jennie  and  Bessie,  who  could  claim 
A  beauty  that's  beyond  our  aim, 
On  floor  or  links,  to-day,  I  fear? 

Alas!     Are  they  themselves  to  blame? 
Where  are  the  buds  of"  yester-year  ? 

Where  is  the  learned  Amelie, 

Who  loved  her  beauty  less  than  fame? 

Or  Consuelo,  fair  and  free ; 

Mabel  and  Mary  ?      What  became 
Of  Isabel?     All!      All  the  same  ! 

All  fled  away,  and  left  us  here  ! 
All  in  pursuit  of  higher  game  ! 

Where  are  the  buds  of  yester-year? 

And  tell  me  where  the  Muses  be? 

Of  old  New  York — creme  de  la  creme; 
That  in  the  M.  A.  M.  we  see — 

Each  hanging,  in  a  dusty  frame  ! 

The  Bouncers,  too,  that  none  could  tame, 
But  laughed  at  Mrs.  Grundy's  sneer! 

Gone  !      What  a  pity  !      What  a  shame  ! 
Where  are  the  buds  of  yester-year  ? 

ENVOI. 

Sweet  roses  !      Sweet  by  any  name ; 
That  first  with  this  year's  snows  appear, 

Just  smile,  if  some  old  fool  exclaim, 
Where  are  the  buds  of  yester-year? 

Henry  G.  Chapman. 
53 


LOVE'S  such  a  fool  !      He'll  grow  and  thrive 
On  just  the  simplest  fare  alive  ; 
A  glance,  a  word,  a  trifling  touch, 
Will  feed  his  system  much  too  much. 

Love's  such  a  fool  !      When  all  is  o'er, 
And  Fate  hath  clanged  her  leaden  door — • 
When  Hope  no  shred  of  sustenance  gives, 
On  ghosts  of  joy  the  blockhead  lives. 

Emma  Carleton. 


59 


THE  BRIDGES   OF  SHELL 

ACROSS  the  swirling  torrent  of  her  hair 
Three    tortoise    bridges   stretch.      Their   arches 

guide 

In  tiny  currents  that  rebellious  tide 
Of  chestnut  brown,  that  else  flowed  everywhere. 

The  sun  throws  red  and  gold  reflections  there, 
The  winds  a  silken  spray  are  flinging  wide, 
While  fragrance  blows — such  odors  as  abide 

In  choicest  teas  the  chests  of  Asia  bear. 

The  breeze  more  ardent,  warmer  kisses  plies ; 
More  eager  for  disorder  ripples  rise. 

The  bridges  sway  and  swing — the  turmoil  hides 
Their  forms — they  fall !    Flee,  flee,  my  fellows !    Save 

Your  hearts  ere  they  are  swept  away.      Love  rides 
In  search  of  wreckage  on  that  tossing  wave. 

Layto?i  Brewer. 


HAPPINESS-A   RECIPE 

TO  make  it:   Take  a   hall,  dim  lit; 
A  pair  of  stairs  where  two  may  sit ; 
Of  music  soft,  a  bar  or  so  ; 
Two  spoons  of — just  two  spoons,  you  know  ; 
Of  little  love  pats,  one  or  two, 
Or  one  squeezed  hand  instead  will  do  ; 
A  waist — the  size  to   be  embraced  ; 
And  two  ripe  lips,  rose  red — to  taste  ; 
And  if  the  lips  are  soft  and  sweet, 
You'll  find  your  happiness  complete. 
60 


PERCY'S  BREACH  OF  PROMISE  SUIT 

LOVELY  Phyllis  loved  a  lawyer, 
Percy  Algernon  McPhee, 
Who  was  waiting  for  a  practice, 

Waiting  long  and  patiently. 
(Also,  tho'  she  proudly  scorned  him, 
She'd  a  slave  in  Reuben  Lee.) 

Slowly  passed  the  ling'ring  seasons 
Like  a  long-protracted  dream, 

Till  the  legal  mind  of  Percy 
Hit  upon  a  novel  scheme. 

"  Phyllis,  dear,"  he  said  one  evening, 
When  the  gas  was  turned  down  low, 

««  Far  from  me  be  all  complaining, 
But  I  find  the  law  is  slow. 

"  So,  to  hasten  on  our  wedding, 

I've  evolved  a  little  plan. 
Now,  don't  start,  dear,  but  just  listen  ; 

You  must  love  some  other  man  ! 

"  (And,  I  don't  mind  hinting,  dearest, 
I'd  select  rich  Reuben  Lee.) 

Lead  him  on  till  he  proposes, 
Then  accept  him  gracefully. 
61 


"  Treat  him  gently  till  you  feel  he's 
Firmly  fixed  upon  the  hook, 

Then  just  play  him  as  the  angler 
Plays  the  troutlet  in  the  brook  ! 


"  Make  him  prance  and  make  him  grovel, 

So  that,  weary  of  his  life, 
He  declares,  in  anguished  accents, 

You  shall  never  be  his  wife. 

"  Then,  his  billets-doux  collecting, 
Come  and  call  on  your  McPhee, 

Who's  been  waiting  at  a  distance 
Calmly,  but  expectantly. 

"  And  together  we'll  consider, 

And  together  institute 
Just  a  little  twenty-thousand- 

Dollar  breach  of  promise  suit  !  " 

Phyllis,  tho'  at  first  reluctant, 
Was,  at  last,  completely  won; 

And  the  pact  was  sealed  with  kisses 
As  the  clock  was  striking  one. 
62 


Two  weeks  later  Percy  chuckled, 
As  he  read  his  Morning  Bee, 

At  the  news  of  the  betrothal 
Of  his  love  to  Reuben  Lee. 

All  that  day  he  spent  in  Harlem, 
Vainly  searching  for  a  flat, 

Which  would  hold  a  small  piano 
And  his  darling's  theatre  hat. 


But  that  night  when  tired  Percy 
Opened  his  hall-bedroom  door, 

Here's  the  note  he  found  from  Phyllis, 
Lying  blankly  on  the  floor  : 

"  Dearest  Perce  "  (it  ran),  "I'm  sorry 
That  our  plans  have  fallen  through — 

But  when  a  man's  in  such  a  hurry, 
Pray,  what  can  a  poor  girl  do  ? 
63 


"  So,  reluctantly,  I  write  you, 
That  this  afternoon  at  three, 

At  the  church  around  the  corner, 
I  was  wed  to  Reuben  Lee. 


P.  S. — When  the  honeymoon  is  ended 
Come  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  !  " 

J.  H.  Holliday. 


COMMISERATION 


I  see  a  little  boy 

Dressed  up  like  a  young  Lord  Fauntleroy, 
With  ruffles,  and  ribbons,  and  rings,  and  curls, 
And  things  that  are  only  fit  for  girls, 
I'm  as  sorry  for  him  as  I  can  be; 
And  I  pity  him,  too,  for  I  know  that  he 
Is  either  the  namby-pamby  kind, 
Or  his  mother  is  a  —  well,  never  mind. 

Edward  Salisbury  Field. 
64 


SUPREME  AT  THAT 

e>'cs  that  a^  half-blinded 
By  girlish  thoughts  that  flit, 
She  reads  the  latest  novel 
Enough  to  talk  of  it. 

Yet,  deem  her  not  constructed 

Upon  a  shallow  plan. 
Her  specialty  lies  higher, 

For  she  can  read  a  man  ! 

65 


THE    OLD    HAT. 


66 


THE  OLD  HAT 

VX7HEN  Dolly  dons  her  Easter  hat— 
**        A  wondrous  thing  and  peerless — 
She  makes  a  proclamation  that 
I  find  depressing,  cheerless. 

The  hat  is  pretty,  that  is  sure ; 

And  pretty,  too,  is  Dolly  ; 
But  beauty's  magic  fails  to  lure 

Away  my  melancholy. 

For  very  stern  she  grows,  whereat 

I'm  present  bliss  dismissing — 
When  Dolly  dons  her  Easter  hat 

The  edict  is,  **  No  kissing  !" 

James  Barrett  Kirk. 


THOSE  EASTER  BELLES 

THOSE  Easter  belles,  those  Easter  belles, 
Full  half  of  them  are  wicked  sells 
That  never  hear,  nor  heed  the  chime 
Of  church  bell — save  at  Easter  time. 

Those  howling  swells,  those  howling  swells, 
Now  turning  out,  in  swift  pell  mells, 

Are  hastening,  bent  on  nothing  else 
But  flirting  with  those  Easter  belles. 

Those  Easter  belles  !     Those  Easter  belles  ! 

How  many  a  lie  the  poet  tells 
Who  his  reluctant  muse  compels 

To  sing  your  praises — Easter  belles  ! 

Madeline  Bridges. 
67 


A  VALENTINE 


IF  YOU  LOVE   ME,    ETHEL,   DEAR, 
THIS  IS   HOW   I   SHALL   APPEAR. 


IF  YOU   DO   NOT,    ETHEL,    LOVE, 
I  SHALL   FEEL   LIKE  THE   ABOVE. 


THE    COST 

ERE  you  take  ship  for  Land  o'  Dreams 
Inspect  your  ticket  well  ;   it  seems 
In  that  fair  realm  no  gold  is  spent — 
But — oh — your  heart  must  pay  the  rent. 
68 


THE  FACTS  IN  THE  CASE  OF   BLUE 
BEARD 

A  MAIDEN    from    the    Bosphorus,   with  eyes  as 
bright  as  phosphorus, 

Once  wed  the  wealthy  bailiff  of  the  caliph  of  Kelat. 
Though  diligent  and   zealous,   he  became  a  slave  to 

jealousy  : 

Considering  her  beauty  'twas  his  duty  to  be  that. 
When  business  would  necessitate  a  journey  he   would 

hesitate, 
But,  fearing  to  disgust  her,  he  would  trust  her  with 

his  keys, 
Remarking    to    her   prayerfully:    "I    beg    you'll    use 

them  carefully. 

Don't    look   what   I   deposit   in  that  closet,    if  you 
please  ! ' ' 

It  may  be  mentioned  casually  that  blue  as  lapis  lazuli 
He  dyed  his  hair,  his  lashes,  his  moustaches  and  his 

beard, 
And    just   because    he    did    it,    he  aroused  his   wife's 

timidity  ; 
Her  terror  she  dissembled,  but  she   trembled  when 

he  neared. 

This   feeling   insalubrious   soon  made  her   most  lugu 
brious, 
And    bitterly    she    missed    her    elder    sister    Mary 

Anne  ; 
She  asked  if  she  might  write  her  to   come  down  and 

spend  a  night  or  two. 

Her  husband  answered  rightly  and  politely  :    "  Yes, 
you  can  !  " 


Blue-beard   the    Monday  following,  his  jealous  feeling 

swallowing, 
Stowed  all  his   clothes   together   in   a   leather-bound 

valise, 

And,  feigning  reprehensibly,  he  started  out  ostensibly, 
By    traveling    to    learn    a    bit    of   Smyrna    and    of 

Greece. 
His  wife  made  but  a  cursory  inspection  of  the  nursery, 

The  kitchen  and  the  airy  little  dairy  were  a  bore, 
As  well  as  big  or  scanty  rooms,  and   billiard,  bath  and 

anterooms, 
But  not  that  interdicted  and  restricted  little  door. 

For,  all  her  curiosity  awakened  by  the  closet  he 

So  carefully  had  hidden  and  forbidden  her  to  see, 
This  damsel  disobedient  did  something  inexpedient, 

And  in  the  keyhole  tiny  turned  the  shiny  little  key, 
Then    started  back    impulsively,    and    shrieked    aloud 

convulsively  : 
Ten  heads  of  girls  he'd  wedded  and  beheaded  met 

her  eye  ! 
And  turning  round,  much  terrified,  her   darkest   fears 

were  verified, 

For  Blue-beard  stood   behind  her,  come  to  find  her 
on  the  sly. 

Perceiving  she  was  fated  to  be  soon  decapitated,  too, 
She  telegraphed  her  brothers  and   some  others  what 

she  feared, 
And  Sister  Anne  looked  out  for  them,  in  readiness  to 

shout  for  them, 
Whenever    in    the    distance     with    assistance    they 

appeared. 
But  only  from   her   battlement  she  saw  some  dust  that 

cattle  meant. 

The  ordinary  story  isn't  gory,  but  a  jest  : — 
70 


But  here's  the  truth  unqualified.      The  husband  wasn't 

mollified. 
Her  head  is  in  his  bloody  little  study  with  the  rest ! 

THE  MORAL  :   Wives,  we  must  allow, 
Who  to  their  husbands  will  not  bow, 
A  stern  and  dreadful  lesson  learn 
When,  as  you've  read,  they're  cut  in  turn. 

Guy  Wetmore  Carry/. 


THE  SAME  OLD  GAME 


THEY    played   the  game  in 
Asia, 

Eight  thousand  years  agone. 
The  same  old  game  that   folks 

play  now — 

The  game  of  knight  and  pawn. 
The  headman  sat  in  judgment. 
The  soldiers'  will  controlled 
The  mass  of  folks  who  wrought 

for  bread 
And  did  as  thev  were  told. 


They     played     the     game     in 

Egypt 

For  many  thousand  years. 
The    strong    got    what     they 

thought  was  good, 
The  weak  made  good  their 

fears. 

The  toilers  built  the  pyramids 
To  hold  the  bones  of  kings. 
Behold  them,  standing  still  to 

mark 
The  constancy  of  things. 


72 


III. 

In  Greece  they  liked  the  stren 
uous  life 

And  led  it,  all  who  could, 
While   Helots  did  the  tiresome 

work, 

As  Helots  always  should. 
They    loved    the    beautiful    and 

good, 
They  slicked  their  skins  with 

oil. 
Greece  was    an    ideal    land   for 

folks 
Who  didn't  have  to  toil. 


73 


The  Romans  were  a  lordly  crew 

And  domineered  the  Earth. 
The   best  was  good  enough   for 

them, 
Naught   less   their    pains   was 

worth. 
Great   folk   were   they  who   did 

their  job 

So  thoroughly,  that  still 
Earth's  face  is  scored   by  marks 

that  speak 
The  vigor  of  their  will. 


All  are  gone.      O'er  Babylon 

The  lion  prowls  by  night. 
Egyptian,  Argive,  Roman — where 

Is  now  their  rule  of  might  ? 
All  gone  !      On  rolls  the  patient  orb, 

While  Saxon  asks  of  Slav, 
If  Earth  is  big  enough  for  both, 

And  what  share  each  shall  have. 

74 


CROSS  AND  CROWN 

«  PRETTY  MAIDEN,  come  with  mc> 

-t        Let  us  cross  the  ocean's  foam, 
And  forever  happy  be 

In  my  dear  old  London  home." 

"  What's  your  title,  gentle  sir? 

Do  you  wear  a  ducal  crown  ? 
Can  I  make  a  social  stir 

As  your  bride  in  London  town  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  am  a  simple  knight  ; 

'Tis  with  love  I  sue  to  thee. 
Let  us  our  betrothal  plight 

And  together  cross  the  sea." 

But  the  maiden  turned  away, 

Gave  her  head  a  flippant  toss, 
And  the  Briton  heard  her  say  : 

"No,  siree  ;  no  crown  no  cross." 

B.  Hawkins. 


75 


BALLADE  OF  THE    STRAWBERRY 
BLONDE 

U  /CARROTS"    they    called    it    when    we    were 

V><      young, 

In  deep  disdain  for  the  copper  hue  ; 
"  Red-head  !  "  — But  now  that  it's  praised  and  sung, 

Erstwhile  scoffers  know  their  cue  : 

"  Titian  loved  it  !  "  and  Titian  knew 
How  the  yellow  and  brown  and  the  red  respond 

To  the  sun's  rich  ray  ;   and  they  say  'tis  true 
Cleopatra,  too,  was  a  strawberry  blonde  ! 

Catherine  of  Russia  had  hair  of  flame  ; 

Aspasia,  Maintenon,  Helen  of  Troy, 
Diana  of  Poitiers  owned  the  same. 

(None  with  loud  laughter  dared  them  annoy  !) 

Madame  Recamier,  France's  joy, 
Anne  of  Austria,  fair  and  fond, 

(To  bronze  their  locks  did  they  art  employ  ?) 
Cleopatra,  too,  was  a  strawberry  blonde. 

Eyes  that  were  jewels  of  blue  or  green, 

Or  gray  or  brown,  these  dames  possessed  ; 
Rose-tinted  flesh  with  a  satin  sheen. 

— In  a  thousand  changing  colors  dressed, 

Long  lines  of  ladies,  all  russet-tressed, 
Appear  at  the  wave  of  Tradition's  wand, 

And  fair  and  stranger  than  all  the  rest, 
Cleopatra,  too,  was  a  strawberry  blonde  ! 

ENVOI. 

Flavia,  Queen,  with  the  auburn  locks, 
Take  this  for  answer,  duly  conned, 
Thy  flaming  hair  when  the  rude  world  mocks  : 
"  Cleopatra,  too,  was  a  strawberry  blonde  !  " 

May  Waring. 
76 


VALE,   WINTER 

GOOD   BY,  O  Winter.      Fare  thee  well  ! 
Farewell  to  all  thy  ills, 
To  plumbers  and  pneumonia 
And  grip  and  huge  coal  bills. 

77 


Farewell  to  all  the  hothouse  things 
For  which  we've  had  to  pay  ; 

To  deadly  dinners  and  cold  feet, 
And  opera  and  play. 

Farewell  !      And  let's  rejoice  to  feel. 
That,  with  thy  vanished  snows, 

We  still  may  keep  in  debt  to  buy 
My  lady's  new  spring  clothes. 


LOVE'S    WAY 

will  love  go? 
When  thou  shalt  weave  a  bower  of  young  rose 

shoots, 

His  table  spread  of  cherished  wines  and  foods, 
Con  songs  to  sing  to  him,  purse  thy  lips  to  flutes, 

And  run  with  eager  tendance  on  his  moods, 
Crying,  "Abide  with  me,  rest  ever  so  !  " 
Then  will  love  go. 

When  will  love  stay  ? 

When    thou    shalt    say,     <<  Go,    death  comes   in   thy 
track  ; 

God,  reason,  right,  decree  that  we  must  part. 
Go,  flee  the  world's  damnation,  look  not  back  ; 

There  is  no  room  for  thee  within  my  heart." 
When  this  to  him  thy  anguished  soul  shall  say, 

Then  will  love  stay. 


not    a    Sunday 
afternoon 

But  finds  him  stepping  down 
Just  at  the  corner,  when  the  car 

Comes  jingling  out  from  town  ; 
And  nudging,  nodding,  whispering, 

The  gossips  watch  him  go 
To   knock   once  more  at   her  dear 

door — 
Jt  is  Belinda's  beau. 

"  He's  on  the  way,  he's  on  the  way  !  " 

Her  heart  begins  to  beat 
At  eager  footsteps  hurrying 

Along  the  frozen  street  : 
"  He's  here,  he's  here  !  "  it  sings  for  joy 

At  sight  of  him,  and  lo, 
For  all  it's  winter,  roses  bloom 

To  greet  Belinda's  beau. 

If  it  should  chance  the  weather's  fine, 

Beneath  her  dimpled  chin 
Her  bonnet's  tied,  a  monstrous  muff 

She  slips  her  fingers  in, 
To  tread  with  him  her  well-worn  paths 

Across  the  sparkling  snow 
That  take  into  a  fairy- land 

Belinda  and  her  beau. 

Then  home  they  turn  when  early  dusk 

Creeps  on,  a  starlit  haze, 
To  stir  the  embers  on  the  hearth 

Into  a  fitful  blaze  ; 

79 


While  very  near,  although  apart, 

Before  the  ruddy  glow 
They  sit,  in  secret  silences — 

Belinda  and  her  beau. 

O  trembling,  timid,  happy  time, 

When  love  that  dyes  the  cheek 

And  shines  in  sorry  stolen  glance 

Still  hesitates  to  speak  ! 
They  part  without  a  word,  and  yet, 

Without  a  word,  they  know 
Next  Sunday  when  it  comes  around 
Will  bring  Belinda's  beau  ! 

M.  E.   W. 


A  BOURGEOIS  BALLADE 

This  is  but  a  simple  jangle, 

Telling  bow  one  free  from  guile 

Got  into  a  fearful  tangle 

Thro*  a  skipping-rope  and  smile. 

DORIS  was  a  butcher's  daughter, 
Slender,  tall,  and  fair  to  see, 
With  a  smile  her  mother  taught  her 
In  her  tender  infancy. 


Philip's  father  was  a  pieman, 
Famous     for     his     buns     and 
cakes, 

But  a  rusty,  crusty  Timon — 
Such  as  Nature  seldom  bakes. 


Philip  with  some  pies  was  tripping 
On  an  errand,  when  he  first 

Saw  the  smiling  Doris  skipping 
Rope  with  links  of  wiener-wurst. 


Faster  flew  her  feet,  and  faster, 

Philip's  heart  beat  pitapat, 
(Love,  the  trickster  ;    Love,  the  master, 

Was  responsible  for  that.  ) 

From  that  day  throughout  the  seasons 

Philip  husbanded  his  pay  ; 
(But,  for  sentimental  reasons, 

Versified  his  time  away. ) 

Till,  when  he  had  safely  gathered 
Twenty  nickels  in  his  store, 

He  reflected  that  his  father' d 
Better  know  ere  he  did  more. 
81 


"I've  some  news  to  tell  you,  Papa," 

Bashful  Philip  meekly  said  ; 
"  For  T  think  it  only  proper 

You  should  know  I  mean  to  wed." 

Loudly  jeered  the  cruel  parent, 

Sneering  "  Pish  !  "  and  likewise  "  Tush  !" 
'«  Why,  you  ne'er-do-well,  you  daren't  ; 

Who'll  supply  your  milk  and  mush  ?  " 

Simply  answering  his  sire, 

"Never  fear,  I've  funds  to  burn," 
Philip  left  him  ere  his  ire 

Took  a  more  abusive  turn. 

82 


Left  him  and  proceeded  straightway 
To  the  burly  butcher's  store, 

Found  him  leaning  in  the  gate-way, 
With  his  apron  steeped  in  gore. 


««  Well,  my  little  man,  what  is  it  ? 

Cutlets,  ruffled  grouse,  or  lamb? 
Whence  the  pleasure  of  this  visit  ? 

Sweetbreads,  leber-wursty  or  ham?" 

"  Sir,  I  come  to  find  your  daughter  ; 

Come  to  find  and  make  her  mine — 
Feeling  if  I  once  besought  her, 

She  could  ne'er  my  love  decline." 

Harshly  laughed  the  sanguinary 
Villain  worthy  of  the  stage, 

Till  a  sudden  fancy  merry 
Dissipated  quite  his  rage. 

83 


"  Step  within  and  see  my  daughter, 

Suitor  blithe  and  debonair, 
Speak  the  message  you  have  brought  her, 

You'll  receive  her  answer  there." 


Joyfully,  our  Philip  entered, 

(Simple  soul,  devoid  of  guile  !) 

Thinking  that  creation  centered 
In  the  charming  maiden's  smile. 

"  Lovely  fairy,"  cried  he  loudly, 
"  Take  a  trusting  pieboy's  heart,, 

I  will  guard  you,  O  so  proudly  ! 
Let  us  never,  never  part  ! ' ' 


84 


But — the  while  our  hero's  cup  is 
Running  o'er  with  rapture  sweet — 

"  Let  him  join  the  other  puppies," 
Smiled  his  Doris  ;   "it  is  meet  !  " 

Then  the  rash,  tempestuous  tyrant 
(Never  was  a  man  so  mean  !) 

Thrust  the  overbold  aspirant 
In  his  sausage-meat  machine. 
*        *        * 

Philip's  gone — yes,  gone  before  us, 
And  his  soul's  at  rest,  I  hope  ; 

Tho'  the  ever-smiling  Doris 

Has  a  brand-new  skipping-rope  ! 

J.  H.  Holliday. 


85 


BALLADE  OF  CASUAL  KISSES 

NOT  carefully  are  these  bestowed — 
These  be  the  little  coins  we  throw 

As  largess  to  a  beggar's  woe 
Or  drop  unheeded  on  the  road. 
These  may  not  pay  for  pleasures  owed  ; 

We  scorn  to  hold  them  miservvise  ; 
Too  small  to  spend  by  law  or  code — 

The  kisses  that  we  do  not  prize. 
These  be  the  food  of  love,  no  doubt, 

Yet  not  for  palates  overnice  ; 

Poor  food,  devoid  of  salt  or  spice, 
An  epicure  would  do  without. 
Food  guaranteed  to  give  no  gout  ; 

A  Barmecidal  feast  that  lies 
Spread  for  the  many  thronged  about — 

The  kisses  that  we  do  not  prize. 
On  infant,  relative  and  friend, 

E'en  on  the  sycophantic  foe  ; 

On  those  we  think  we  know  we  know, 
When  friendships  start,  when  friendships  end, 
These  be  the  empty  ones  we  send 

In  envelopes  to  please — the  eyes  ; 
Yea,  blissful  as  a  kiss  that's  penned — 

The  kisses  that  we  do  not  prize. 

L'ENVOI. 
True  Lovers,  make  ye  no  ado  ; 

With  gold  thrice  tried  we  pay  your  sighs. 
God  wot  they're  not  for  such  as  you — 
The  kisses  that  we  do  not  prize. 

Tbeodosia  Garrison. 


86 


SYLVIA 

OYLVIA  fettered  me  with  smiles; 
^      Chained  me  with  an  hundred  wiles ; 
Held  me  close,  in  captive  guise, 
With  the  magic  of  her  eyes. 

Yesterday  the  bonds  she  broke ; 
Granted  freedom  from  the  yoke ; 
Gave  me  back  my  liberty  ; 
Sylvia,  what  is  that  to  me  ? 

Soothly,  even  to  the  grave, 
I  would  rather  be  a  slave  ! 

Clinton  Scollard. 
87 


BERTHA. 

88 


BERTHA 

BERTHA  never  seems  to  know 
Just  the  time  I  ought  to  go. 

Bertha  loves  me — that  I'm  sure. 
Bertha's  coy — and  immature. 

Some  day  she  will  learn,  no  doubt, 
It's  the  time  to  put  me  out 
(May  that  be  a  distant  day  !) 
When  I'm  longing  most  to  stay  ! 


REMODELED   WOMAN 

I  CANNOT  guess  the  inwardness 
Of  Fashion's  strange  decrees, 
For  I  should  think  they'd  make  a  dress 

To  fit  the  form  with  ease. 
The  waist  should  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

Where'er  by  Nature  placed, 
But  study  woman,  and  you'll  see 
She  has  a  sliding  waist. 

For  now  the  gown — at  least  in  town — 

Ne'er  fits  the  damsel  fair ; 
The  waist-line  is  now  up,  now  down, 

Diagonal  or  square. 
You  can't  evade  the  truth  displayed — 

To  Art  her  form  she  owes  ; 
And  every  year  she  is  remade 

To  fit  the  latest  clothes. 

Elliott  Flower. 


89 


CINDERELLA 

(A    GRIMM    TALE     MADE    GAY) 

THE  vainest  girls  in  forty  states 
Were  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  Gates 
They  warbled,  slightly  off  the  air, 

Romantic  German  songs, 
And  each  of  them  upon  her  hair 
Employed  the  curling  tongs ; 
And  each  with  ardor  most  intense 

Her  buxom  figure  laced, 
Until  her  willful  want  of  sense 

Procured  a  woeful  wraist, 
For  bound  to  marry  titled  mates 
Were  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  Gates. 

But,  truth  to  tell,  the  swains  were  few 
Of  Gwendolyn,  and  Gladys,  too. 
So  morning,  afternoon,  and  night, 

Upon  their  sister  they 
Were  wont  to  vent  their  selfish  spite, 

And  in  the  rudest  way  ; 
For,  though  her  name  was  Leonore, 

That's  neither  there  nor  here, 
They  called  her  Cinderella,  for 
The  kitchen  was  her  sphere, 
Save  when  the  hair  she  had  to  do 
Of  Gwendolyn,  and  Gladys,  too  ! 

Each  night  to  dances  and  to  fetes 
Went  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  Gates : 
With  aching  heart  she  watched  them  go, 
In  silks  and  satins  clad. 


90 


(A  prince  invited  them,  and  so 
They  put  on  all  they  had  !) 
But  one  fine  night,  as,  all  alone, 

She  watched  the  flames  leap  higher, 
A  bent  and  wrinkled  fairy  crone 
Stepped  nimbly  from  the  fire, 
Who  cried  :   "  The  pride  upon  me  grates 
Of  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  Gates!" 

"  I'll  now,"  she  added,  with  a  frown, 
««  Call  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  down  !  " 
And  ere  your  fingers  you  could  snap 

There  stood  before  the  door 
No  paltry  hired  horse  and  trap  ; — 

No,  no  !      A  coach  and  four  ! 
And  Cinderella,  fitted  out 
Regardless  of  expense, 
Made  both  her  sisters  look  about 

Like  thirty-seven  cents. 
The  prince,  with  one  look  at  her  gown, 
Turned  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  down  ! 

Wall-flowers,  when  thus  compared  with  her, 
Both  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  were. 

The  prince  but  gave  them  glances  hard, 

No  gracious  word  he  said  ; 
He  scratched  their  dances  off  his  card, 

And  wrote  her  name  instead  : 
While  where  he  would  bestow  his  hand 

He  showed  them  in  a  trice, 
By  handing  her  the  kisses,  and 

To  each  of  them  an  ice  ! 
In  sudden  need  of  fire  and  fur 
Both  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  were  ! 


At  ten  o'clock,  most  malcontent, 
Both  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  went. 
Their  sister  stayed  till  after  two, 

And,  with  a  smile  sincere, 
The  prince  obtained  her  crystal  shoe, 

By  way  of  souvenir. 
"  Upon  the  bridal  path,"  he  cried, 
"  We'll  reign  together  !      Since 
I  love  you,  you  must  be  my  bride  !  " 

He  was  no  slouch,  that  prince  ! 
And  into  sudden  languishment 
Both  Gwendolyn  and  Gladys  went. 

THE   MORAL  :      Many  girls  on  earth 
Exaggerate  their  proper  worth. 
They  think  the  very  shoes  they  wear 
Are  worth  the  average  millionaire, 
Whereas  few  pairs  in  any  town 
Can  be  half-sold  for  half  a  crown. 

Guy  Wetmore  CarryL 


A    DEMAIN 

DEAREST,  to-morrow  day, 
As  hoping  children  say, 
Will  see  me  on  my  way 

In  any  weather — 
And  in  the  realm  that  we 
Rule  in  eternity, 
I  and  my  love  shall  be 
Angels  together. 

Henry  Grafton  Chapman. 


THE  SUMMER  GIRL 

NOW  the  Summer  Girl  she  packs  her  ducks, 
(It's  beautiful  weather  tor  them  !) 
And  puts  on  a  skirt  with  a  thousand  tucks, 
Three  hundred  ruffles  and  eighty  pucks, 
Some  darts  and  gores  and  a  hem. 

She  loadeth  her  trunks  on  the  hotel  trucks 

All  light  with  the  ruffles  and  lace, 
And  dreameth  of  fluttering,  gay,  young  bucks, 
Of  the  golf  and  the  surf,  and  she  doesn't  care  shucks 

For  the  tan  on  her  beautiful  face. 

She  engageth  herself  to  a  man  or  two, 

Anyone,  short  or  tall — 

She  doesn't  care  whether  they're  old  or  new, 
Rich  or  poor — and  neither  would  YOU, 

If  you  knew  'twould  be  off  in  the  fall  ! 

C.  R.  Bacon. 


INVERSE  RATIO 

MAN'S  inhumanity  to  man  is  hard, 
In  fact,  'tis  scarce  in   line   with   aught  that's 

human. 

And  yet — 'tis  quite  angelic,  as  compared 
With  woman's  inhumanity  to  woman. 

93 


A  GIFT    FOR   PRUE 

EASY  to  choose  a  gift  for  Prue — 
The  dear  girl  likes  such  hosts  of  things  ; 
Bracelets  and  brooches,  clasps  and  rings  ; 
Easy  to  choose  a  gift  for  Prue — 
Rare  bits  of  pottery  that  grew 

Beneath  some  ancient  master's  hand  ; 
A  hall-marked  silver  jug  ;   a  new, 

Strange  jewel  from  an  Orient  land — 
Easy  to  choose  a  gift  for  Prue. 

There' re  scores  of  things  that  one  could  name — 

Roquewood,  she  tells  me,  she  adores  ; 

Or  say — a  fan  of  Pompadour's  ; 
There' re  scores  of  things  that  one  could  name — 
A  fluffy  Persian  cat  that  came 

In  pomp  and  state  from  over  sea  ; 
A  rug  from  Ispahan — a  tame 

Huge  bull  pup  with  a  pedigree — - 
There' re  scores  of  things  that  one  could  name. 

Oh,  passing  well,  her  tastes  1  know — 

That  doesn't  puzzle  me  at  all  ; 

Why,  any  one  of  these  would  call 
Her  rapt  appreciation  so. 
Prince,  read  the  reason  of  my  woe. 

I  have,  to  squander  on  these  things  — 
Herein  the  puzzle  lies,  I  trow — 

Precisely  what  my  timepiece  brings. 
And  passing  well  her  tastes  I  know. 

Theodosia  Garrison. 


*  *. 


A   PRANK   OF  FATE 

IS  that  the  bell  ?      A  note  from 
Nell  ? 

I  think,  though,  it  was  Isabel, 
Who  said  that  she  might  send  for 

me 
To  join  her  on   the 

links  at  three. 
But   1   dare   say  the 
note's    from 
May — 
We  quarreled  badly 
yesterday 

'Tis  true,  but  yet,  she  "  feels 
And  will  forgive  if  I'll  forget 

95 


regret, 


I  can  foretell  those  missives  well ; 
When  Love's  light  fingers  touch  the  bell, 
Some  wire  apart,  by  Cupid's  art 
Completes  a  circuit  in  my  heart. 

But,  yes,  I  own  I  might  have  known 
That  thrill  was  Mabel's  right  alone  , 
She's  back  in  town — "  Oh,  Mrs.    Brown, 
It's  you — well,  put  your  basket  down." 

Jennie  Betts  Hartswick. 


THE  KING'S  JESTER 

ARTH  is  the  great  King's  kitchen,  wide  and  vast 

Where  each  of  us,  a  laboring  cook,  doth  try 
To  bake  for  him  some  dainty  unsurpassed — 

To  win  his  regal  favor  each  doth  vie. 
For  'tis  to  him  who  cooks  the  daintiest  fare 

A  boon,  that  he  shall  leave  his  humble  place 
And  gladly  mount  the  great  King's  marble  stair, 
To  swagger  in  his  halls  in  gold  and  lace. 

CHANCE  is  a  jolly  jester,  wand'ring  through, 

Who,  bent  on  mischief,  casts  his  eyes  around 
To  find  another  scurvy  trick  or  two 

That  to  his  far-famed  foolship  may  redound. 
He  spies  a  pasty  baking  merrily, 

And  quickly,  ere  the  busy  cook  can  know, 
With  finger  pokes  it,  swelling  airily— 

And  lo  ! — our  daintiest  cake  is  turned  to  dough  ! 

Joseph  H.  Gregory 


96 


A   BALLADE  OF  WEALTH 

SAW  her  first  in  youth,  a  vision   fair, 
Who  whispered  of  strange  pleasures 

she  could  give  ; 
Like  rubies  were  her  lips,  spun  gold  her  hair  ; 

She  said  :    ««  Without  me,  wherefore  shouldst  thou 
live?" 

Quoth  I  :    "  And  may  I  hope  thy  grace  to  gain  ?  " 
"Yea,"    answered   she;     "though   long   thy   toil, 
rejoice  ; 

Art  thou  but  faithful,  toil  shall  not  be  vain  ; 

This  do — withhold  thy  pen,  nor  lift  thy  voice  ; 

"  Toil  on  in  silence  'mid  the  dust  of  earth  ; 

Observe  nor  moon  nor  star  ;  see  not  the  sun  ; 
Forget  all  loveliness  !   forsake  all  mirth  ; 

Know  neither  right  nor  wrong.      So  am  I  won.*' 

Lo,  even  as  she  bade  me  have  1  toiled  ; 

Refrained  from  song,  nor  looked  toward  the  sky  ; 
Weary  and  worn  at  last,  and  all  assoiled, 

Unfit  for  fair  companionship  am  I. 

97 


Yet  Wealth  had  kept  her  word  and  come  to  me, 
Owning  me  master  ;   yea,  and  she  is  fair  ; 

But  oh,  a  very  dreary  guard  hath  she, 

Who  leaves  her  never.      This  is  crabbed  Care. 

Was  it  for  this  I  toiled,  and  stifled  song  ? 

Wealth  whispers,  with  low  laughter  :    "I  have  come, 
And  1  am  thine:  —  but  both  of  us  belong 

To  crabbed  Care."      Moreover,  1  am  dumb! 

Geraldtne  Meyrick. 

AN  OLD  BACHELOR 


raw,  and  chill,  and  cold  outside, 
With  a  boisterous  wind  untamed, 
But  I  was  sitting  snug  within, 
Where  my  good  log-fire  flamed. 
As  my  clock  ticked, 
My  cat  purred, 
And  my  kettle  sang. 

I  read  me  a  tale  of  war  and  love, 

Brave  knights  and  their  ladies  fair  ; 
And  1  brewed  a  brew  of  stiff  hot-scotch 
To  drive  away  dull  care. 

As  my  clock  ticked, 
My  cat  purred, 
And  my  kettle  sang. 

At  last  the  candles  sputtered  out, 

But  the  embers  still  were  bright, 
When  I  turned  my  tumbler  upside  down, 
An'  bade  m'self  g'  night  ! 

As  th'  ket'l  t-hic-ked, 

The  clock  purred, 

And  the  cat  (hie)  sang! 

Tudor  Jenks. 
98 


To  crabbed  Care. 


but  both  of  us  belong 


99 


ENIGMA 

WE  go  to  church  on  Christmas  day, 
Mary  and  I,  sedately, 
My  sweetheart  softly  gowned  in  gray 

With  quiet  step  and  stately  ; 
She  will  not  smile  at  what  I  say — 

Her  lashes  veil  her  cheek — 
What  saint  devout  e'er  knelt  to  pray 

With  face  more  calm  and  meek? 
I  would  not  dare  to  touch  her  hand, 

Of  very  smiles  I'm  chary  ; 
Some  things  no  man  may  understand, 

But  this  is — this  is  Mary. 

We  go  to  Martin's  Christmas  night, 

Molly  and  I,  for  dinner ; 
Whose  smile  so  quick,  whose  eyes  so  bright 

As  those  of  my  sweet  sinner  ? 
We  chat,  we  laugh,  we  toast,  we  quite 

Lose  sight  of  the  hereafter, 
I — and  my  darling  heart's  delight 

Aglow  with  fun  and  laughter. 
Beneath  the  cloth  I  press  her  hand, 

My  chum,  so  sweet  and  jolly  ; 
Some  things  no  man  may  understand, 

But  this  is — this  is  Molly. 

Tbeodosia  Garrison. 


100 


THE  TWENTIETH  "CENTUkV"  SPRING 


evening     when 
'twas  very 
Near     the    end    of 

February, 

To  Father  Time  Old 
Winter  came  and 
sighed  ; 

"I'm  nearly  over, "said  he, 
"And  I  hope  that  Spring  is 

ready." 

"I  will  send  for  her  this  min 
ute,"  Time  replied. 

"Bring    me    Spring!"    he 

then   demanded, 
But     his     warder,     empty- 
handed, 

Entered  trembling,  with  a  scared  and  awe-struck  face  ; 
"This  new  century,"  said  the  warder, 
"  Isn't  yet  in  working  order, 
And  I  cannot  find  a  Spring  about  the  place." 

"  Zounds  !  "  cried  Time,  "  It  is  no  wonder 

I  am  nearly  crazy  under 
The  work  that  this  new  century  must  bring  ; 

And  for  half  a  hundred  reasons 

I  forgot  to  make  the  seasons, 
But  I'll  hurry  now  and  improvise  a  Spring." 


"Bring  me  sunshine,"  he  directed, 
As  some  choice  clouds  he  selected, 

"  And  a  roll  of  blue  sky-paper,  if  you  please  ; 
Bring  some  grass  that's  young  and  tender, 
Devvdrops  of  a'sparkling  splendor, 

And  half-a-dozen  different  kinds  of  breeze. 

"  Bring  me  pitter-patter  showers, 
And  some  timid,  early  flowers  — 

A  few  in  bloom,  but  most  of  them  in  bud  ; 
Bring  me  birds  that  warble  gladly, 
And  some  dust  that  whirls  up  madly, 

And  don't  forget  to  bring  a  little  mud." 


Then  Old  Time,  the  clever  artist, 

Went  to  work  and  made  the  smartest, 
The  prettiest,  and  very  latest  thing 

In  Springs.      She  was  exquisite  ! 

Then  tor  her  maiden  visit 

He  sent  to  Earth  the  Twentieth  Century  Spring. 

Carolyn  Wells. 


THE    "WHEN"    POEMS 

TT  7HEN  searching  press  or  magazine 

^  *        To  catch  a  moment's  bliss, 
You're  sure  to  find  some  poem  there 

Which  reads  about  like  this : 
"  When  Mabel  Trips  Across  the  Street," 

"When  Mollie  Mounts  Her  Wheel," 
<<  When  Susie  Seats  Herself  to  Play," 

"  When  Stella  Starts  to  Squeal." 

"  When  Celia  Comes  Upon  the  Stage," 

"When  Helen  Has  a  Beau," 
"  When  Sophie  Skates  Upon  the  Ice," 

"When  Sallie  Starts  to  Sew." 
"When  Mother  Makes  a  Johnnycake," 

"  When  Polly  Pours  the  Tea," 
"  When  Father  Shaves  His  Stubbly  Face," 

"When  Susie  Smiles  at  Me." 

"  When  Grandma  Winds  Her  Ball  of  Yarn," 

"  When  Patience  Packs  Her  Trunk," 
"  When  Sammy  Spins  His  Brand  New  Top," 

"When  Father  Slays  a  Skunk." 
"  When  Ezra  Eats  Pie  With  a  Fork," 

"When  Charlotte  Chews  Her  Gum," 
"  When  Gertrude  Strikes  Her  Golfing  Ball," 

"  When  Baby  Sucks  His  Thumb." 

"When  Rachel  Rakes  the  Meadow  Hay," 
"When  Betsey  Bumps  Her  Crown," 

"When  Willie  Wears  His  Trousers  First," 
"  When  Reuben  Comes  to  Town." 
104 


And  so  ic  goes  from  day  to  day, 

No  matter  which  you  read, 
The  daily  press  or  magazine, 

"  When"  poems  take  the  lead. 

Joe  Cone. 

BEHIND    THE    SCENES 

THE  Cynic  gazed  on  a  pictured  face ; 
Then  hid  it  away  from  sight ; 
And,  taking  his  role  of  the  narrow  soul, 
He  sang  to  the  shadowy  night : 

'«  In  the  perilous  land  of  Wedded  Life 

A  mythical  treasure  lies; 
And  tools  afire  with  a  vain  desire 

Give  search  for  the  hidden  prize. 

"  They  hunt  in  couples  ;   man  and  maid ; 

They  hunt  through  a  lifetime's  round; 
Their  minds  a-teem  with  a  sickly  dream  ; 

Yet  none  hath  the  treasure  found. 

««  Wild  Will  o'  thf  Wisp  is  their  trusted  guide; 

Such  sport  ne'er  comes  amiss; 
And  he  laughs,  <  Ho  !  Ho  ! '  as  the  search  doth  go, 

'  'Tis  for  Matrimonial  Bliss!  ' 

"  And  the  Wise,  who  worship  the  great  god,  Sense, 

'Tvvixt  pity  and  scorn  divide 
Of  the  mortals  weak  who  have  gone  to  seek 

Where  the  Devil  hath  been  to  hide." 

The  Cynic  finished  his  song,  then  pressed 

On  the  pictured  face  a  kiss  ; 
And  swore,  "  I  can  find,  an'  the  maid  be  kind, 
This  Matrimonial  Bliss  !  " 

Truman  Roberts  Andrews. 
105 


LUCY 

THOUGH  beauty  is  only  skin-deep, 
As  carpers  would  have  us  believe, 
There's  enough  of  it  still  up  the  sleeve 
Of  Lucy  to  rob  me  of  sleep. 
So  learn,  by  the  state  that  I'm  in — 
Neglecting  my  meals,  and  all  that — 
That  the  heart's  not  protected  by  fat, 
Nor  are  looks  the  less  fatal,  though  thin. 


EDITION    DE    LUXE 

PRISCILLA  is  a  poem  sweet, 
As  anyone  may  see, 
Of  perfect  lines  and  rhythmic  feet 
And  bound  for  life — to  me. 

Her  brow,  a  frontispiece  so  rare, 

Contains  no  smallest  line, 
But  eyes  speak  volumes,  and  declare 

The  whole  edition  mine. 

About  her  mouth  a  winsome  smile 

Of  rapture  gives  a  hint ; 
Sweetheart,  I'd  travel  many  a  mile 

For  one  unpublished  print. 

But  lest  I  lose  my  treasure  trove, 

Desired,  though  undeserved, 
I'll  mark  you  "  Copyright,"  my  love, 
And  add  "  All  rights  reserved." 

Lucy  J.  Miller. 
106 


LUCY. 


107 


THE    GIRL    ACROSS    THE    WAY 


H 


ER  voice  throughout 

the  atmosphere 
With  never-ceasing  ca 
dence  rings. 
The  latest  songs,  'tis 

true,  I  hear, 
And  yet   my  soul's 
removed     from 
cheer. 

Yea,  I  am  sad 
dest  when 
she  sings. 


MY    CHIFFONIER 

JV/TY  chiffonier,  so  dear  to  me 

-L  » -*•      In  bachelor  days,  won  Dorothy : 
"  This  cubby-hole  will  take  my  hat, 
The  small  drawer  at  the  top — why,  that 

Is  just  the  place  for  gloves !  "  said  she. 

"  You  do  not  mind?      I  may?      Merci  ! 

Down  here  I'll  keep  my  lingerie; 

Veils  here — "  and  so  she  schemed  it  at 
My  chiffonier. 

At  first  I  owned  a  corner  wee 
For  "rings  and  things,"  but  latterly 
My  trunk's  my  wardrobe's  habitat. 
It  holds  not  even  a  cravat, 
Yet  it  is  still  (by  courtesy) 
My  chiffonier. 

Edward  W.  Barnard. 
108 


ITEMIZED 

THREE  nights  spent  in  scheming 
What  is  best  to  do. 
Ditto  filled  with  dreaming 

Dreams  of  pink  and  blue, 
Sixteen  trips  about  it, 

Searching  right  and  left — - 
Coming  back  without  it, 
Weary  and  bereft. 

Nine  short  days  exploring 

Fashion's  lexicon  ; 
Blissfully  adoring, 

Pricing,  trying  on. 
Fourteen  hours  ot  flurry, 

Trimming  it  aright. 
Countless  hours  of  worry 

Lest  it  prove  a  fright. 

Poignant  fears  of  blunder — 

Feelings  simply  numb  ! 
Half  a  day  of  wonder 

Why  it  doesn't  come. 
Frenzied  declaration 

All  is  done  amiss. 
Moments  of  vexation 

Over  that  and  this. 

Ribbons,  wires,  and  roses 

(Nature's  counterparts). 

Sundry  tilted  noses. 

Sundry  yearning  hearts. 
109 


Last,  a  terse  indictment 

(Twenty  dollars,  flat !). 

Out  of  the  excitement 
Just  an  Easter  hat ! 

Edwin  L.  Sabin. 


A: 


TO    THE    SISTER    OF    MY    SOUL 
H,  Little  Sister  of  my  Soul, 

For  whom  my  songs  were  sung, 
Your  eyes  demanded  daily  toll 
Of  my  poor  rhyming  tongue  ! 

I  looked  within  their  depths  of  brown 
To  see  the  love-light  shine. 

I  braved  the  laughter  of  the  town 
To  be  your  valentine. 

How  foolish  now  our  quarrel  seems  ! 

('Twas  all  my  fault,  I  know,) 
But  lovers  cannot  dine  on  dreams, 

And  poets  are  so  slow. 

*        #        * 
And  are  you  really  older  grown? 

Your  curls  are  silver  now  ? 
Your  voice  has  a  sedater  tone  ? 

A  slander,  I'll  avow  ! 

Your  face  is  printed  on  my  heart, 

Where  only  one  may  see, 
And  hourly,  as  I  dream  apart, 

It  dearer  seems  to  me  ! 

I  hold  you  in  my  heart's  control — 

Forever  fair  and  young, 
Ah,  Little  Sister  of  my  Soul, 

For  whom  my  songs  are  sung ! 

Ernest  Neal  Lyon. 


ABOVE    AND    BELOW 

SHE  lives  in  the  square  below  me  there. 
Ah  me  !      If  she'd  only  love  me  ! 
She  lives  in  the  square  below  me  there, 
But  moves  in  a  circle  above  me. 


in 


A    BALLADE    IN    BLUE    CHINA 

( IVitb  apologies  to  Andrew  Lang. ) 

NOW  isn't  it  really  curious; 
And  doesn't  it  show  the  futility 
Of"  warning  against  the  injurious 
Effects  of  mixed  sociability, 
When  a  girl  who,  with  greatest  facility, 
Could  have  captured  and  wed  a  much  finer  man, 

And  ended  her  days  in  tranquillity, 
Expresses  her  love  for  a  Chinaman? 

What  makes  me  so  terribly  furious — 

Provokes  me  almost  to  scurrility- 
Is  noting  that  foreigner's  spurious 

Imitations  of  social  civility. 

I  do  not  deny  his  utility 
Nor  wilfully  would  I  malign  a  man, 

Till  a  lady  with  crass  imbecility 
Expresses  her  love  for  a  Chinaman. 

She  says  that  his  grace  is  luxurious ; 

But  it's  only  an  air  of  servility, 
Like  that  of  a  common  usurious 

Dispenser  of  loans  to  nobility  ; 

He's  wholly  devoid  of  virility. 
To  prison  I'd  gladly  consign  a  man 

When  a  girl  with  such  facile  docility 
Expresses  her  love  for  a  Chinaman. 

L' ENVOI. 
So  I  curse  in  my  weak  puerility 

Dresden  potters  who  could  so  design  a  man, 
That  my  lady  with  great  volubility 
Expresses  her  love  for  a  china  man. 

Alb  in  Peddecord  Ingram. 

112 


np\VAS  a  doll  who  wore,   in 
-1        Christmas  store, 
The  laurels  that  fall  to  tew  ; 
With  lips  of  crimson,  and  locks  galore, 

And  eyes  of  a  china  blue. 
Her  neighbor  near  was  a  monkey  queer, 

Tied  fast  to  a  painted  stick 
(But  paint  a  mother  with  never  a  fear 
Might  allow  her  child  to  lick). 


This  doll,  I  swear  ('tis  a  case  not  rare), 

Was  sillily,  blankly  vain — 
Her  basis  clothes,  and  the  wavy  hair 

That  covered  her  sawdust  brain  ! 
And  she  made  a  mock  of  the  humble  stock 

Surrounding  her  shining  niche ; 
She  smoothed  and  flaunted  her  silken  frock 

With  many  a  haughty  twitch. 

While  the  monkey  sighed  (he  was  lacking  pride), 

And  hated  his  fuzzy  paw, 
And  out  of  his  beady  eyes  he  tried 

To  gaze  at  the  doll  with  awe. 
For  of  course  it's  seen  that  a  monkey  mean 

At  eighteen  cents,  ah  me, 
Is  only  dirt  to  a  \vaxen  queen 

At  a  dollar  and  seventy-three. 
113 


But  the  doll,  all  shorn,  and  her  trappings  torn, 

In  a  corner  lies  for  days, 
While  a  dainty  maid,  in  careless  scorn, 

With  some  other  trinkets  plays. 
And  1  know  a  boy  with  a  single  toy 

(A  poor  little,  lame  little  wight) — 
The  monkey,  battered  and  loved,  with  joy 

He  hugs  to  his  breast  all  night  ! 

Edwin  L.  Sab  in. 


114 


THE    OTHER    FELLOW 

OF  all  who  dwell  upon  the  earth 
There's  none  I  wish  to  harm, 
There's  none  who,  seeing  me  approach 

Need  feel  the  least  alarm  ; 
My  heart  is  filled  with  love  for  all, 

Save  one  whom  I  detest — 
But,  oh,  the  way  I  hate  that  man 
Makes  up  for  all  the  rest  ! 

I  will  not  write  his  name,  lest  he 

Should  chance  to  read  my  rhyme, 
And  learning  of  his  danger,  flit 

To  some  far  distant  clime ; 
But  just  to  show  how  he  has  used 

Me  like  a  canine  yellow, 
I'll  give  some  reasons  why  I  hate 

That  horrid  "other  fellow." 

My  trouble  with  him  first  began 

When  we  were  boys  at  school, 
He  always  won  the  prizes,  and 

Made  me  appear  the  fool ; 
And  then  at  college  later  on, 

When  reached  the  years  more  mellow, 
I  found  the  scholarships  all  went 

To  him,  the  "  other  fellow." 

When  college  days  were  o'er,  and  I 

To  find  a  job  set  out, 
To  my  disgust  1  learned  that  he 

Knew  what  I  was  about ; 

"5 


He'd  managed  to  obtain  the  start — 

By  telephone  came,  ««  Hello  ! 
We're  awfully  sorry,  but  we've  just 

Engaged  the  '  other  fellow.'  ' 

And  then — oh  crudest  blow  of  all  ! — 

When  love  had  pierced  my  heart, 
And  I  went  begging  Annie  Bell 

To  take  away  the  smart, 
When  I  implored  her  to  be  mine — 

Much  gold  she  had  and  yellow- 
She  let  me  know,  oh,  wretched  girl ! 

She  loved  the  "  other  fellow." 

Now,  tell  me,  don't  you  think  that  I 

Have  cause  to  hate  this  man, 
Who  lies  in  wait  at  every  turn 

To  harm  me  if  he  can  ? 
If  he  should  fall  into  my  hands 

I'd  make  him  howl  and  bellow — 
I  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  him  ! — 

Confound  that  "  other  fellow  !  " 

William  Wallace  Wbitelock. 


116 


TO    CELESTINE 

YO  U  ask  me  if  forever 
I  will  be  true  to  you. 
In  all  the  world  there's  never 
A  lover  who's  more  true  ! 

And  yet  there's  one  condition 
My  constancy  to  mar — 

That  you,  my  dear  patrician, 
Must  stay  just  as  you  are  ! 
117 


MADE    IN    GERMANY 

FAIR  GRETCHEN  keeps  a  toy  shop 
Of  woolly  lambs  and  things, 
That  roll  about  or  wildly  pop 
Forth  on  their  agile  springs. 
And  when  she  chooses  to  display 

Her  well-made  store  to  me, 
She  says  in  quite  a  haughty  way, 
"  Yah  !  made  in  Germany." 

She  thinks  that  I  might  like  a  doll. 

Have  I  a  little  girl? 
"  See  dot  sweet  leetle  pet ;  look,  all 

Her  hair  vas  real  " — A  curl 
Has  strayed  forth  from  sweet  Gretchen's  cap, 

The  one  real  curl  to  me. 
What  are  the  other  curls  that  hap 

To  come  from  Germany? 

A  wooden  horse,  all  painted  brown, 

Just  like  Von  Waldersee's, 
Quite  meekly  in  this  China  town 

Supports  some  dolls  Chinese. 
I'd  quickly  buy  this  charger  fine, 

If  Gretchen  would  but  be 
A  fellow-traveler  of  mine, 

And  flee  to  Germany. 

Ah  !  rosy  Gretchen,  can't  you  see 

'Tis  not  your  wares  I  seek? 
What  though  they  be  from  Germany, 

They  cannot  love  or  speak. 
118 


'Tis  your  sweet  self,  for  love  has  laid 

His  fairy  wand  on  me; 
I  want  the  maiden  who  was  made 

In  wise  old  Germany. 

Annulet  Andrews. 

THE    SPIDER    AND   THE    FLY 
(SUMMER  VERSION.) 

THE  oriole  hangs  in  the  apple 
His  cradle  of  gauze  and  down, 
And  rallies  a  song  of  sunshine 

Out  of  the  country  and  town  ; 
But  lighter  than  note  of  the  ruby  throat 

Is  the  song  Miranda  sings 
When  out  in  her  cool,  green  hammock 
She  gracefully  rocks  and  swings. 

The  spider  has  stretched  his  hammock 

Of  soft  and  delicate  skein 
To  tangle  the  trysting  fire-fly 

That  blunders  upon  the  scene  ; 
But  on  her  veranda  the  coy  Miranda 

Swinging  and  singing  I  spy — 
Ah  !  she  is  the  cunning  spider, 

And  I  am  the  tangled  fly  ! 

Her  music  has  lured  me  to  prison  ; 

Her  beauty  has  made  me  stay, 
And  snared,  and  meshed,  and  tangled, 

I  never  shall  get  away 
From  moonlit  veranda  and  dreamy  Miranda 

No  matter,  for  love  I  die  ; 
My  sweetheart's  the  cunning  spider, 

And  I  am  the  tangled  fly  ! 

Aloysius  Coll. 
119 


CHERCHEZ    LA    FEMME 

LIFE  yields  in  all  its  varied  round, 
Of  mysteries  not  a  few, 
Nor  can  a  spot  on  earth  be  found 
That  knows  not  one  or  two  ; 

120 


This  fact  is  true  of  New  York  town, 

And  doubtless  of  Siam, 
But  everywhere  the  wise  declare, 

Cbercbez  la  femme. 

Does  some  pale  youth,  whose  merry  laugh 

Once  cheered  the  listener's  heart, 
Begin  to  mope,  like  moon-struck  calf, 

And  play  a  Hamlet's  part ; 
Or  does  a  man  of  ancient  mien 

Sport  like  a  playful  lamb, 
And  lose  his  sense  and  competence  ? 

Cbercbez  la  femme. 

The  secrets  of  the  Cabinet 

Appear,  we'll  say,  in  print; 
Some  scandal  of  the  upper  set 

Is  told  by  smile  and  hint ; 
Our  enemies  have  learned,  we  find, 

The  strength  of  Uncle  Sam, 
The  proper  way  to  win  the  fray — 

Cbercbez  la  femme. 

And  so,  my  son,  cbercbez  la  femme 

Whenever  you're  in  doubt, 
Be  not  content  with  saying  "  Damn  !  " 

But  find  the  culprit  out ; 
With  steady  brain,  untroubled  eye, 

Dissect  each  show  and  sham, 
But  waste  no  time  on  simple  man — 

Cbercbez  la  femme. 

William  Wallace  Wbitelock. 


121 


HIS    WIFE 

SOMEHOW  I  never  seem  to  mind  the  men — 
They  look  a  minute,  then  they  look  away — 
But  it's  the  women  that  I  mind  most;   they 
Whisper  and  lift  their  eyes  and  stare  again, 
And  I  stare  back  as  though  I  didn't  care, 

Care,  while  my  throat  chokes  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
It's  not  for  me,  but  oh,  to  think  they  dare 
To  laugh  at  Jim — my  Jim. 

Perhaps  I  shouldn't  mind — I  ought  to  be 

Used  to  their  sneers  and  grins  by  now,  God  knows, 
And   yet — how  this  train  stops  and  backs  and  slows 

And  waits  for  more  to  look  at  him,  and  me. 

"  Only  a  little  glass  or  two,"  he  said, 

Oh,  my  poor  boy,  how  gay  he  looked  and  trim  ! 

I  used  to  think  I'd  rather  see  him — dead, 
But  oh,  it's  Jim,  my  Jim. 

I  wonder  if  those  staring  women  think 
I  envy  them  their  husbands  sitting  there 
Prim  and  sedate  !      The  fools,  I'd  rather  bear 

With  everything,  the  pain,  the  shame,  the  drink, 

And  be  his  wife,  his  wife  to  help  him  so, 
His  wife  to  love  him  and  to  comfort  him. 

How  proud  I  used  to  be,  how  proud,  and  oh, 
To  think  it's  Jim — my  Jim. 

Tbeodosia  Garrison. 


122 


IN   ANY    GARB 

TN  olden  times,  when  a  girl  grew  up, 
A      They  tied  her  with  ropes  of  gems. 
They  shackled  her  ankles  and  wrists  with  ore, 
And  they  crowned  her  with  diadems. 

They  soaked  her  tresses  in  perfumed  oil, 
They  rubbed  her  with  pastes  and  things, 

Then  brought  her  forth,  as  a  queen,  befit 
To  rivet  the  gazes  of  kings. 

But  now — a  dip  in  the  tumbling  weaves, 
With  a  rest  on  the  sands  between, 

A  linen  skirt,  and  a  sailor  hat — 

And — she's  just  as  much  of  a  queen  ! 

Madeline  Bridges. 


A    LOST   HOUR   IS    LOST   HAPPINESS 


one,  but  many,  if  my  will  has  weight 
To  guide  the  shuttles  of  her  life  and  mine, 
Shall  be  the  hours  when  an  obedient  fate 
Our  threads  of  life  shall  closely  intertwine. 

For,  as  a  gambler  who  has  lost  a  score 

Sends  after  it  a  hundred,  so  shall  I 
Send  after  this  lost  hour  a  hundred  more, 

Well  knowing  it  is  gone,  for  good  and  aye. 

Yet  can  I  never  count  it  wholly  lost, 

For  what  we  lose,  we  value.      Now  I  know 
Such  hours  are  priceless,  know  it  to  my  cost, 

And  swear  that  she,  as  well,  shall  hold  them  so. 

Henry  Chapman. 
124 


THE  GOURMET  OF  THE  TABLE  D'HOTE 


WrHEN  the  Res  August* 
make  you  dine 

For  fifty  cents  including  wine, 
Rail  not  at  Fortune,  curse 

not  Fate. 

Let  Laughter  on  Diges 
tion  wait. 
Assist  your  appetite  and 

note 

The    gourmet    of    the     table 
d'hote. 

Items :    a  full  dress  satin  tie, 
A  polished  shirt,  a  silker  high, 
A  heavily-embroidered  vest 
(It's  sweller  if  it's  double-breast), 
A  just-marked-down   Tuxedo   coat, 
The  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote. 

His  haughty  vis-a-vis,  Miss  Brown, 
Model  at  Itsky's,  7  Down  Town, 
By  day  in  Itsky's  cloaks  arrayed, 
But  only  for  the  wholesale  trade, 
Out-Gibson's  all  "  Life's  "  girls.      (I  quote 
The  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote.) 

She  thinks  him  "  elegint,"  refined; 
His  charms  of  feature,  form  and  mind 
Make  all  the  other  down-town  gents 
Like  mutilated  thirty  cents. 
To  make  him  President  she'd  vote — 
The  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote. 
125 


From  old  Chianti's  chicken  soup 
That  never  knew  contents  of  coop, 
To  "  demytass  o'  cafFynore," 
He  goes  the  limit,  often  more, 
With  gusto  of  suburban  goat, 
The  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote. 

He  sighs  and  sniffs  Chianti's  ink, 
Then  smacks  his  lips  and  says,  "I  think 
That  glass  o'  wine  is  very  fair — 
That  is,  for  plain  Vang  Ordinair." 
He  feels  the  joys  that  Omar  wrote, 
The  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote. 

God  bless  you,  though,  dear  little  cad, 

You  made  me  laugh  when  I  was  sad 

*        -x-        -x-        * 
Quaint  gourmet  of  the  table  d'hote. 

Wilton  Lackaye,. 


126 


DAPHNE'S   KISSES 

OH,  Daphne  refreshes  like  waters 
And  Daphne  gives  life,  like  the  air. 
The  most  captious  of  Eve's  captious  daughters 

Could  scarcely  deny  she  is  fair. 
She  is  free  with  her  love,  with  her  laughter, 
Free  with  sympathy's  tears  that  come  after, 
And  gossip  malignantly  hisses 
That  Daphne  is  free  with  her  kisses. 

That  one  should  too  generous  be  with 
His  wealth,  is  a  fault,  yet  a  grace  ; 
The  things  in  life's  list  to  be  free  with, 

And  yet  hope  for  mercy,  we  place 
In  one  class,  and  for  others  all  vainly 
Indulgence  is  begged.      'Tis  marked  plainly 
By  our  system  of  crosses  and  crisses 
That  Daphne  must  not  with  her  kisses. 

And  yet  if  earth's  blindness  shall  leave  us 

Clear-eyed  at  the  Goal  of  Desire, 
We  may  find  that  one  fault,  although  grievous 

Did  not  blot  out  her  virtues  entire. 
We  may  see,  far  above  and  beyond, 
This  sweet  soul  that  was  faulty  and  fond 
In  the  place  that  some  Pharisee  misses — 
Poor  Daphne,  who's  free  with  her  kisses. 

Grace  MacGowan  Cooke 


127 


NARROW  streets  and  turbaned  Arabs 
Peddling  royal  Pharaoh  scarabs, 
Where  Mohammedans  religious 
Beg  and  pray  with  zeal  prodigious. 

That's  Egypt  ! 

Mighty  pyramids,  tremendous, 
Monuments  of  toil  stupendous ; 
Obelisks  and  wizened  mummies, 
Monarchs  once,  now  poor,  dry  dummies. 

That's  Egypt ! 
Ruined  temples  so  gigantic 
As  to  thrill  the  mind  pedantic ; 
Sphinxes,  marred  and  mutilated, 
Rameses'  statue,  broken  pated. 

That's  Egypt ! 

Donkey  boys,  alert  and  smiling, 
All  one's  ready  cash  begui/ing; 
Every  soul  for  backsheesh  pleading, 
Tourists  wisely  little  heeding. 

That's  Egypt! 

Villages  of  mud,  poor  hovels, 
Quaintest  water-wheels,  queer  shovels, 
Everything,  in  fact,  so  curious 
One  feels  either  fond  or  furious. 

That's  Egypt ! 
128 


O'er  the  fields  the  Nile's  vast  network, 
On  the  mosques  the  Moorish  fretwork  ; 
Domes  and  minarets  abounding, 
Oft  the  call  to  prayer  resounding. 

That's  Egypt! 

Hieroglyphics,  strange  inscriptions, 
Written  by  those  old  Egyptians, 
Telling  of  their  god  Osiris, 
Or,  perchance,  of  Ra  or  Isis. 

That's  Egypt ! 

Power  and  greatness  long  since  vanished, 
Progress  from  its  borders  banished ; 
Just  enough  of  ancient  glory 
Left  there  still  to  tell  its  story. 

That's  Egypt ! 
Labelle  H.  Ferry. 

WHEN    BESSIE    CLIMBED    OVER    THE 
WALL 

WHEN  Bessie  climbed  over  the  wall 
Not  a  word  could  I  utter, 
For  my  heart  was  a  flutter 
At  a  sight  not  permitted  at  all, 
Of  most  delicate  laces 
And  an  ankle,  Ye  Graces, 
When  Bessie  climbed  over  the  wall. 

The  fleeting  blood  rushes 
To  her  forehead  in  blushes. 
The  sweet  picture  I  love  to  recall, 
But  I  can't  see  the  reason 
(I  suppose  this  is  treason) 
Why  Bessie  climbed  over  the  wall. 

Winifred  Sackville-Stoner. 
129 


TO    A    POET 
FROM   DULCINEA 

POET,  although  you've  been  extremely  kind, 
The  time  has  come  when  I  must  speak  my  mind. 

I  think  it  is  absurd  for  you  to  write 

My  "  lips  are  like  twin  cherries," — what  a  sight 

I'd  be  if  such  a  silly  thing  were  true  ! 
Do  cherries  really  look  like  lips  to  you  ? 

Then,  «'  shell-like  ears  !  "     To  the  marines,  pray  tell, 
My  ear  is  like  a  hard  and  slimy  shell  ! 

"  With  eyes  like  stars  !  "     Indeed,  sir,  even  at  night, 
My  eyes  are  not  two  yellow  dots  of  light. 

And  I  confess  it  gives  me  quite  a  twinge 
Just  to  imagine  "  lids  with  jetty  fringe." 

"  Hair  like  a  raven's  wing  !  "      Fancy  a  maid 
With  short,  stiff  quills  that  wouldn't  coil  or  braid! 

And  I  would  be  the  most  distressed  of  girls 
Were  my  teeth  small  and  spherical  "like  pearls." 

As  to  my  neck,  you  really  should  be  told 
'Tis  not  "like  alabaster,"  hard  and  cold. 

Then,  ««  arms  like  ivory  !  "      Candid,  I  must  own  ! 
Why  don't  you  say  they're  nothing  but  a  bone? 

O,  prithee,  Poet,  if  you  think  me  fair, 
With  better  things  than  these  my  charms  compare  ! 

Carolyn  Wells. 


130 


TO    POLLY 

MY  dear,  your  face  was  meant  to  kiss, 
By  one,  selected  for  such  bliss — 
Just  one — and  I  should — well,  rejoice 
If  you  would  let  me  make  that  choice. 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE 


HE  mercury  was  falling  fast 
s  out  uPon  tne 


A   youth,  who   bore,   encased  in 

ice, 

A    bag  of  clubs.      He    bellowed 
*'-'  twice, 

"Fore!" 

His  waistcoat,  a  red  coat  beneath, 
Gleamed  like  a  dahlia  in  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  brass  ten-pounder  rung 
The  howl  educed  from  leathern  lung, 
"Fore!" 

"Try  not  the  links,"  the  keeper  bawled, 
"The  snow's  so  deep  you  will  be  stalled; 
The  wind,  the  ice!" — 'twas  all  in  vain. 
Shrieked  out  the  youth  in  high  disdain, 
"Fore!" 

<(  Say — hold  up  there — it's  time  to  quit. 
D'ye  take  me  for  a  snow-plow — nit !  " 
So  ran  the  caddie's  last  farewell. 
The  only  answer  was  a  yell, 
"Fore!" 

And,  as  he  wound  his  matin  horn 
Ere  yet  the  dawn's  faint  streaks  were  born, 
The  milkman  heard  a  muffled  cry, 
Broke  by  a  sniff,  a  sneeze,  a  sigh, 
"Fore!" 
132 


A  mound  of  snow  they  cleared  away 
And  found  him,  later  in  the  day, 
Clubs  clasped  to  breast  in  grip  of  death, 
And  murmuring  with  gasping  breath, 

"Fore!"  M.  W.  Pool. 


A    CHRISTMAS    HINT 

OF  bits  of  ribbon,  silk  and  gauze, 
Sweet  Phyllis  fashioned  hosen 
For  hanging  on  the  Christmas-tree, 
To  hold  the  gifts  she'd  chosen. 
And  I  ?  I  helped  and  watched,  meanwhile, 

The  long  and  taper  fingers — 
Ah,  how  each  touch  of  those  fair  hands 
Within  my  memory  lingers! 

I  might  forever  thus  have  sat 

In  silent  adoration ; 
But  Phyllis  has  a  great  dislike 

For  such  a  situation. 
So,  with  an  air  most  commonplace 

Designed  to  check  my  pleasure, 
She  said,  '«  There,  all  are  done  save  yours; 

Now,  pray,  what  shall  it  measure  ? ' ' 

"  How  should  I  know?  "  I,  wondering,  asked. 

"Why,  thus;   the  measure  of  it 
Should  faintly  hint  to  good  Saint  Nick 

The  gift  that  you  most  covet.'* 
I  looked  sweet  Phyllis  in  the  eyes ; 

I  said,  "  If  this  be  true,  dear, 
Make  me  the  stocking  for  my  gift 

About  as  big  as — you,  dear." 

Truman  Roberts  Andrews. 
133 


BALLADE    OF   THE    GOLFING   BORE 

FULL  many  beastly  bores  there  be 
Abroad  upon  this  spinning  sphere, 
Who,  when  afar  one  fain  would  flee, 
Make  dire  assault  upon  the  ear ; 
But  this  beyond  all  doubt  is  clear, 
Albeit  they  mount  to  triple  score, 

He  is  the  deadliest  and  most  drear, 
The  unrelenting  golfing  bore  ! 

He'll  start  you  off  upon  the  "  tee," 

And  round  the  links  the  course  will  steer ; 
Meanwhile  the  strange  trajectory 

Of  balls  '  *  pulled, "  '  <  sliced, ' '  and  < '  topped ' ' 
will  blear 

The  circumambient  atmosphere 
Until  you  can  endure  no  more, 

And  wish  him  in  some  nether  sphere, 
The  unrelenting  golfing  bore  ! 

Of  much  will  he  discourse  with  glee, 

That  unto  you  is  nonsense  sheer ; 
At  every  other  game  will  he 

Make  mockery  with  flout  and  fleer ; 

His  aim  in  life,  it  would  appear, 
Is  just  to  beat  the  "  Bogey  "  score, 

And  should  he — all  the  town  would  hear 
The  unrelenting  golfing  bore  ! 

ENVOY. 

Peace,  though  you  reckon  year  on  year 
From  the  evanished  days  of  yore, 

Yet  will  you  fail  to  find  his  peer, 
The  unrelenting  golfing  bore  ! 

Clinton  S  collar  d. 

134 


A    BALLADE    OF    RED-HEELED    SHOES 

THEY  flit,  a  noiseless  cavalcade, 
Through  bygone  times,  in  brave  array, 
By  many  a  stately  dame  displayed 
Who  loved  the  world  of  yesterday  ; 
When  spinets  trilled  the  plaintive  lay 

Of  saraband  or  pavan  slow, 
They  ground  a  myriad  hearts  to  clay — 
The  red-heeled  shoes  of  long  ago. 

Deft  fancies  summoned  to  their  aid 

A  broidered  wreath  or  ribbon  stay ; 
Perchance  a  buckle  carved  of  jade 

Whereon  an  armored  love  might  pray — 
For  lightest  whims  their  charms  portray 

And  frailest  fashionings  bestow, 
That  subtle  magic  they  should  sway — 
The  red-heeled  shoes  of  long  ago. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  undismayed 

They  danced  on  Cupid's  wreaths  of  bay, 

And  sternest  doubters  could  persuade 
That  life  might  turn  from  grave  to  gay  ? 

US 


Like  faint,  sweet  promises  of  May 

They  trod  the  years,  and  weal  or  woe 

'Twas  subject  to  their  witching  way — 
The  red-heeled  shoes  of  long  ago. 

ENVOY. 
Long  gone  their  wearers — where  are  they  ? 

And  only  quaint  traditions  show, 
In  old  romances  or  the  play — 
The  red-heeled  shoes  of  long  ago. 

Charlotte  Becker, 

AT    MATINS 

PRETTY  Miss  Piety 
Sat  in  her  pew, 
Clothed  in  sobriety — 
Sable  the  hue. 

Eyelids  half  sleeping, 

Head  held  askance, 
Eyes  barely  peeping — 

Ripe  for  a  glance. 

What's  the  priest  saying? 

How  can  she  tell  ? 
Is  she  not  praying 

Fervently  well  ? 

Do  her  thoughts  wander  ? 

Libel  her  not ; 
See  !  she  doth  ponder 

Her  polyglot. 

Ended  the  service — 

(Hers  to  St.  Anne ; 
Ardent  her  verve  is), 

'«  Amen  !  and — a  man." 
136 


w 


IN   SNOW   TIME 

HEN  Alice  and  I  go  sleighing 


In  a  cutter  that's  snug  for  two, 
With  the  chime  of  the  sleigh-hells  saying, 

"  She  is  only  for  you — for  you !" 
I  think  of  the  club  and  its  smoker, 

Where  the  mercury's  seventy-three, 
And  the  boys  at  their  tedious  poker — 

Well — wouldn't  they  like  to  be  me? 

A  horse  that  is  fleet  and  steady, 

A  moon  at  the  full  in  the  sky, 
A  road  where  the  snow  already 

Is  trampled,  and  hard,  and  dry. 
Then  out  through  the  country  we  jingle, 

The  bearskin  tucked  under  her  toes, 
Our  ear-tips  beginning  to  tingle, 

A  tear  at  the  end  of  my  nose  ! 

The  snow  'neath  the  runners  is  creaking; 

The  horse  to  his  fast  pace  demurs ; 
And  then  I  am  conscious  of  seeking 

A  little  hand  under  the  furs. 
Was  anything  ever  so  cosy  ? 

My  courage  grows  suddenly  bold, 
And  Alice's  cheeks  are  as  rosy 

As  roses — perhaps  with  the  cold  ! 

Then  home  ! — when  she  says  she  is  freezing 
To  lunch,  and  a  fire  in  the  grate; 

A  low-spoken  word  and  a  squeezing 
Of  hands  as  we  drive  through  the  gate. 

137 


I  pity  the  fellows  still  playing 

At  poker,  and  toasting  their  toes, 

Who  haven't  a  partner  for  sleighing, 
Like  Alice,  my  Queen  of  the  Snows. 

"  Frank  R.  Batchelder. 


BESIDE   THE    GAS    LOG 

WHEN  the  winds  are  chill  and  the  sky  is  gray, 
And  a  haze  is  over  the  earth,  somehow 
There  is  nothing  to  do  and  little  to  say, 

Except  hats  and  gowns  and  such  powwow. 
Then  it's  oh — to  browse  in  the  newest  book 

Where  heroes  swagger  with  pomp  and  show, 
And  deep  in  a  chair  by  the  chimney  nook 
To  sit  and  dream  in  the  gas  log's  glow  ! 

In  the  dear,  dim,  distant  days  of  old, 

Booted  and  spurred  the  gallants  rode, 
Giving  no  thought  to  the  glint  of  gold, 

And  sword  in  hand  was  the  only  code. 
Ruffles  of  lace  and  cloaks  they  wore. 

There  was  love  and  hate  for  friend  and  foe. 
Ah,  those  were  the  heroes  of  old-time  lore — 

We  can  see  them  all  in  the  gas  log's  glow  ! 

Empty  age  of  the  Up-to-date, 

Loves  and  wars  of  the  Here  and  Now, 
Is  there  no  voice  articulate 

Our  rights  in  romance  to  allow 
Makers  of  plots  with  mould  o'er  cast? 

Are  we  of  to-day  so  beastly  slow 
We  must  bask  in  the  ashes  of  the  past 

And  scorn  the  warmth  of  the  gas  log's  glow? 

Kate  Mastenon. 
138 


NOW    LENT   IS   DONE 

NOW  Lent  is  done — before  your  door 
The  world  will  call  you  as  before 
With  thrill  of  music,  voice  of  swain, 
And  you  will  laugh  and  trip  again 
Its  madding  measure  as  before. 


Ah  well,  our  quiet  times  are  o'er — 
The  beauty  of  my  days  is  slain, 
Our  talks,  our  walks  I  yearn  in  vain 
Now  Lent  is  done. 

Alas,  these  may  not  charm  you  more  — 
Our  books,  our  chats,  our  teacup  lore; 
Not  mine  to  greet  the  Easter  sun  ; 
My  time  of  fasting  is  begun — 
Forbid  the  sweets  I  hunger  for 
Now  Lent  is  done. 

Tbeodosia  Garrison. 
139 


PRO    BONO    PUBLICO 

ORE  knew  she  had  '<  a  call  "  to  be  a  poet ; 

^      She  thought   she   dreamed   in    nothing  else   but 

rhyme. 

Could  she  but  mount  her  Pegasus  and  go  it, 
She  felt  she'd  reach  her  pinnacle  in  time. 

But,  oh !  like  many  poets,  now  and  erstwhile, 
She  needed  ««  cash,"  the  bugbear  of  our  race — 

And  so,  to  stay  her  hunger  and  her  thirst  while 
She  dreamed  in  verse,  she  had  to  take  a  "  place." 

Now  she's  baking,  and  she's  frying,  and  she's  boiling 
In  the  kitchen  of  a  flat — against  her  will. 

Who  knows  but,  while  above  the  range  she's  toiling, 
Her  soul  poetic  things  is  thinking  still. 

Who  cares?      Not  I !      Her  cooking  does  not  show  it. 

My  dinner  in  that  flat,  last  night,  I  took, 
And  I'll  swear,  although  the  world  has  lost  a  poet, 

It's  gained — what's  twice  as  valuable — a  cook  ! 

Paul  West. 


THREE   B'S 

THREE  B's  there  be,  three  busy  B's ! 
Together  go  always. 
Two  of  them  cater  to  my  ease, 
The  third  curtails  my  days. 

The  twain  are  comrades  staunch  and  true, 

The  other  makes  me  ill. 
The  Bottle  and  the  Bird  are  two, 
The  third  B  is  the  Bill ! 

Paul  West. 
140 


IN    CHERUBTOWN 

IN  Cherubtown  it's  quite  the  thing 
To  go  a-sprinting  on  the  wing, 
To  gallivant  the  livelong  day 
And  with  the  other  cherubs  play; 
To  perch  upon  a  fluffy  cloud, 
And  go  star-golfing  with  the  crowd. 
Life  there  has  naught  of  human  ills, 
No  endless  chain  of  horrid  bills, 
No  tailors  out  to  make  a  haul, 
For  cherubs  wear  no  clothes  at  all, 
But  spend  their  time  in  endless  flights 
Through  sunlit  days  and  star-crowned  nights  ; 
Just  to  be  frivolous  they're  hired, 
And,  strange  to  say,  they're  never  tired, 
Although  to  rest  they  can't  sit  down. 
They  don't  do  that  in  Cherubtown  ! 

Kate  Masterson. 

THE    USELESS    QUEST 

IF  I  could  find  some  lonely  hill, 
Some  silent  rocky  shelf, 
I'd  hie  me  there,  its  space  to  fill 
With  nothing  but  myself. 

If  I  could  come  upon  a  beach 

Far  from  man's  trodden  ways, 
And  also  out  of  woman's  reach, 

My  tent  I'd  promptly  raise. 

Alas !      Yet  though  my  quest  should  stretch 

Half 'round  the  world,  what  good? 
I  know  I'd  meet  some  other  wretch 
Seeking  for  solitude  ! 

Madeline  Bridges. 
141 


TO    MARION 

THE  North  Land  hath  her  stories 
Of  wood  and  plain  and  sea. 
The  North  Land  hath  her  glories  ; 
She  pours  them  out  for  thee. 

The  borealis  token 

She  brings  to  light  thy  hair. 
The  sheen  of  snow  unbroken 

To  deck  thy  bosom  fair. 

She  loves  the  hue  of  roses 

On  cheek  and  lip  to  set ; 
And  when  thine  eyelid  closes 

It  hides  the  violet. 

The  swaying  birch  rejoices 

To  see  its  grace  in  thee. 
The  singing  summer  voices 

Fill  thine  with  ecstasy. 

She  takes  the  white  carnation 

And  with  deep  alchemy, 
For  thy  soul-exhalation, 

Distilleth  purity. 

E.  C.  M 


TRANSPOSITION 

WHEN  I  proposed  I  lost  my  head, 
Which  fact  I  quickly  told  her! 
I  didn't  mind,  for  she  instead 
Put  her  head  on  my  shoulder. 
142 


MARION. 


THE  HORSE(LESS)    SHOW 

TT  ZRE'S  Molly  Fly  (she's  left  the  stage) 

And  now  most  sow  his  oats. 

'Tis  said  they've  had  a  spat ; 
She  leads  the  man  a  merry  life  — 

Jost  see  her  Paris  hat ! 
And  \lri.  Bra^.ev -Jones- Der_e — 

Divorced,  you  know,  to-day. 
That  gown  has  cost  a  :hou.  or  two 

Bat  not  her  husband,  *.o  'tis  told ! 
That's  he,  across  the  aisle 


Here'*  Reginald  de  Figurehead, 

Who  wears  his  clothes  bat  once. 
And  old  Mbs  Smffe,  in  hanring  red. 

She's  rkh,  although  a  dance. 
And  Trixey  Ni-.te— that  stunning  gown 

Is  only  plain  kati:te. 
And  Roger  Wabble-Legi,  in  brown, 

With  trousers  London  creased. 
And  Aitor  v,:-  •//:-. h  K:-v  O—  -  : 

f-V;.,-    ?or?^.:    r>.?  :         ^ 

She  pots  in  most  her  time,  indeed, 

Ye*,  aUSodet/bhere! 

What'*  that?     I  muted  the  word. 
Voo  atk  for  btr:t: .'     Hash,  rny  dear, 

They':;  think  you  quite  absurd. 

Ld"j,in  L.  Ha  kin. 
144 


A    BALLADE   OF   EASTER 

THE  town's  been  masked  tor  many  a  day 
In  the  garb  of  a  pensive  penitent 
A  "  hooded  friar  of  orders  gray  " 
Has  kept  the  gates  of  imprisonment ; 

But  duty  and  vow  at  last 

relent, 
The  guarded  portals  are 

open  wide, 
Penance  and  last  alike  are 

spent. 

The  world  is  awake  in 
the  Easter-tide. 

Thrice  a  week  in  a  saintly 

way, 
Her  serious  gaze  on  the 

pavement  bent, 
Lest  even  a  single   glance 

should  stray, 
Marjorie,  gowned  like  a 

Quaker,  went 
To  sew  for  the  suffering 

indigent ; 
But   Marjorie' s   thimble  Is 

laid  aside, 

And  her  eyes  meet  mine  with  a  shy  consent. 
The  world  is  awake  in  the  Easter-tide. 

Stole  and  Missal  have  held  their  sway. 
Low,  in  an  attitude  reverent, 

Worldlings  many  have  knelt  to  pray, 

While  the  belfry  summoned,  "  Repent,  repent." 
But  in  at  the  window  steals  the  scent 


Of  hyacinths  brave  in  their  April  pride, 

And  the  people  know  with  a  glad  content 
The  world  is  awake  in  the  Easter-tide. 

ENVOI. 

Conscience,  of  late  so  eloquent, 

Your  voice  of  warning  may  now  subside; 
You  may  go  to  sleep  till  another  Lent. 

The  world  is  awake  in  the  Easter-tide. 

Jennie  Betts  Hartswick. 


WHEN    DOROTHY    GOES    OUT 

I'D  have  the  sun  to  warm  her, 
I'd  wish  the  breeze  to  cool, 
All  nature  still  to  charm  her 
From  Martinmas  to  Yule  ; 
I'd  wish  her  every  comfort 

With  skies  too  blue  for  doubt — 
But  I'd  have  all  crossings  muddy 
When  Dorothy  goes  out. 

For  thus  'twere  well,  together 

To  mix  a  touch  of  smart 
With  pleasant  outing  weather, 

To  teach  her  maiden  heart 
Life  should  be  full  of  crosses 

As  love  is  full  of  doubt — 
I'd  have  <?// crossings  muddy 

When  Dorothy  goes  out. 


146 


AN    INITIAL    FINE~~OF     25     PFNT 


VA  01621 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


